Return to Paradise
by winslowleach
Summary: Phantom of the Paradise Beef/Winslow fic! After escaping the Paradise only hours before it opened, a freak accident sends Winslow Leach right back into Swan's clutches. It's while stuck in the Swanage trying to recover from terrible injuries and coming to terms with the fact that he may never be able to return to the life he once lived that Winslow meets Swan's new rock star, Beef.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N** Howdy! it's been awhile since I used this website (I have an oooold account from around 2011), and I have no idea if even a single Phantom of the Paradise fan is around these corners of the web! We don't even have our own category it seems, though I guess the general Phantom of the Opera tag will suffice. I figured I would upload this here and see what happens? I've been working on this fanfic for awhile now, and I'm really happy with it so far. It's something I've spent a lot of time and effort on! If you do happen to read it and and enjoy it, absolutely feel free to let me know; in fact, I'd love it if you did!

For those curious about the rating, there's really not much in the way of mature content in this first chapter, aside from some violence. There is some "mature" language later on though, and one sexual scene way down the road, so keep that in mind! Other than that, enjoy!

* * *

Winslow's body was found in an alley on January eleventh.

For those in need of a timeline, perhaps a quick overview to help fill in what you may have missed will help:

On December fourth, "mad tunesmith," convicted criminal who had been ordered to serve a life sentence in Sing Sing prison, Winslow Leach was declared dead, having escaped prison only to be the victim of a freak accident involving a Swan-owned record press that resulted in horrific mutilation (as well as a bullet to the leg). His body was never found.

On December thirteenth, the late Winslow Leach's rock cantata, "Faust," was performed live on national television by glam rock superstar Beef (as well as his backup band, the Undead) to open Swan's rock palace, the Paradise.

Also on December thirteenth, just hours before the legendary performance, a masked, cloaked figure broke free from deep beneath the Paradise. Fueled by rage and frustration and the pain of betrayal, the creature tore his way straight through a metal door and a brick wall and fled, out of the theatre and into the dark streets.

On still the same night, the masked, cloaked figure went back home, to the little apartment he had spent so many years of his life locked away in, devoting hours upon hours to his one love, his greatest passion - his music.

The masked, cloaked figure, who just so happened to be Winslow Leach (who was very much not dead), was distressed to find that his apartment, while thankfully still vacant since his absence, was completely and totally run down. Dust and cobwebs coated every surface and corner. Multiple windows were broken and the door only shut fully if it was slammed hard against the doorway, and Winslow was certain he had been robbed but could not quite even figure out what was missing, for it had been months since he had last been in here and everything looked different and wrong and out of place and foreign.

One thing that had been stolen, Winslow soon discovered, was his bed sheets. It was December, after all. Outside, icy wind howled and made your breath come out in big puffs of cold, white air. Getting your hands on a bed sheet could be life saving. Winslow had no access to a replacement sheet, and it was late and he was tired and everything hurt, and sleeping on a sheetless mattress was better than sleeping on the ground. But sleep hardly came that first horrible night; it was overpowered by anxiety and nightmares and trauma, horrible images of record presses slowly descending upon him, plummeting into freezing water as police sirens wailed, and brick walls blocking every escape, every potential pathway to freedom.

After that horrible first night, life went on. Winslow could not fairly say that life got _better_ , but it certainly continued. He did not have a job, and could not imagine how he could ever possibly get one in the state he was in. He had no identity anymore. No name; his name belonged to a dead man, a convicted criminal who should have served a life sentence locked away in a jail cell. And besides, faking a name would only get him so far. Going to a job interview in the state that he was in, so horrifically deformed, unable to speak in anything but a robotic croak, his face hidden away by a silver mask and the rest of his body hidden beneath black leather… it was unimaginable, to say the least.

On December seventeenth, Winslow came to the startling realization that he could not remember the last time he had had a bite to eat. How he was alive was beyond him, and it frightened him a bit. It was on that day that he visited the local soup kitchen for the first time. This experience alone was horrific. He had not been out in public at all since he had escaped the Paradise. He could not show his face, or even his masked face. He was scared of the reactions he would get, he was scared of being recognized and locked up, he was scared of being stared at or yelled at and, most of all, he was scared of Swan somehow finding him.

But Swan did not find him, and Winslow kept his eyes on the ground, refusing to look up at people, refusing to meet any faces; he refused to see other people's' reactions to what he had become. He said little, scared of the way his robotic voice sounded in his own ears and knowing to others who were unaccustomed to the electric growl of a voice it was even more horrific.

Winslow ate and left as quickly as he possibly could; he had gotten good at sneaking around. He as adept at this point at rushing about unnoticed, stalking through shadows, rushing away before he could be seen. He was gone as quickly as he had come, and although it left him with a great sense of severe alienation, he was grateful for the fact that no one dared talk to him.

That was how things continued. Winslow spent a great deal of time in his home, completely alone. He did not have electricity, he was not paying to live there - it occurred to him after a few weeks that he was squatting, which was illegal, and he was technically homeless. This came as nothing but a dull, numb shock to him, however. He had already broken enough laws, and according to his criminal records he had broken even more than that. He could not find it within himself at this point to feel particularly guilty or distressed. As long as he had a roof over his head and a bed to sleep on in a relatively safe location - and, even if it was rundown and abandoned, at least a _familiar_ location - he could hardly care enough to complain.

The only time Winslow resorted to shoplifting was for batteries. His voice box could not last forever, and although he hardly ever spoke aloud - he had no one to speak to, and the sound of his own artificial voice served only as a reminder of how broken he was - he felt exposed and vulnerable without the ability to speak at all. On December twenty-fourth, Winslow treated himself to a Christmas present of a small handful of stolen batteries, to make sure that he would not lose his voice any time soon.

And life went on.

Winslow did not bother to celebrate New Years, and only knew it happened because of the fireworks that boomed and echoed through the sky all night. This did not upset him; it meant little other than the fact that it made it just a bit more difficult to sleep.

At the beginning of January, after remembering what had happened the first few days, in which he had starved and yet not starved at all, Winslow very experimentally (knowing he was risking his life but finding it incredibly easy not to care) stopped eating for a short period of time. After a week he did indeed start to feel the symptoms of not eating; he was a little dizzy, a little lightheaded, a little out of it. His stomach might have growled a bit. But it felt more like he had not eaten in hours, not days. Winslow did not understand, but he did not take this newfound ability as something to be excited or proud of. Rather, it only disturbed him, and solidified the ever-growing thought that he was not even human anymore at all, but some mangled, torn up, electronic thing that had, perhaps, once been a person a long time ago.

It was the end of the second week of January that Winslow was woken from his sleep by the sound of the door of his apartment being slammed open, so hard that it hit the wall and caused the walls to shake. Winslow jumped up and reached quickly for his mask, which he kept beside his bed. He had tried, for a short period of time, to sleep with it on, but it was much too uncomfortable and Winslow had trouble sleeping as it was. Added discomfort would mean absolutely no sleep at all.

Hoping that the combination of his appearance - a masked, cloaked figure in black leather tended to be intimidating - and his voice would scare off whoever was intruding, Winslow called out, "Who's there?!" His voice box lit up the room, bathing it in a blue and red light, and his voice rang out, loud and electronic and terrible.

No response came but loud footsteps, many at once. There were multiple people here, and they were making no effort to be quiet. There was no sneakiness involved in this process; they were not here to steal and run.

"Is it the police?" Winslow asked now, the intimidation in his voice faltering (although because of his synthesized voice, this did not make him sound particularly less threatening).

The door to his bedroom slammed open now. There were three men in the doorway. Big, muscular men in dark clothes. In the darkness and with only one functioning eye, not to mention having just woken up, Winslow could not get a good look at them, but he could see their silhouettes. Winslow stood up and backed away from them, trying to get as far from them as he could without turning his back on them, until he hit the wall. "What do you want? I don't have anything to give you," Winslow said, and although he tried to keep his voice calm, the way his eye darted about the room and his chest rose and fell rapidly betrayed this and showed that panic was very quickly rising within him.

The men said nothing as they began to walk forward. "Look here, I mean it!" Winslow insisted, pressing into the wall, raising a hand defensively. His voice box lit the men up in blue and red and he could briefly see their faces; angry faces, bearded and threatening. And they seemed unafraid. Why were they unafraid? "I don't have anything here. Killing me won't help you."

Winslow suddenly felt something large and heavy smash directly into the side of his head. It struck his metal helmet, and a loud, clashing bang echoed through his ears, so loud that it overpowered all of his senses and made his ears burn and he screamed a loud, synthesized shriek of pain. He had no idea what had hit him; he could not think coherently and he did not even comprehend that he was on the floor until he felt something slam hard into his stomach and he cried out loud again, and his own electronic screams made his already raw ears sting in pain.

Pain coursed through his body and his head spun, the room a mess of dark blurry images that melted together and spun around incoherently before his one functioning eye. He was kicked again, hard, knocking the wind out of him and leaving him choking and gasping for breath, and Winslow found himself in a state between consciousness and unconsciousness, the pain so intense that he could hardly stay awake and yet so sharp and ceaseless that it would again and again force him back to a weak state of awareness.

But soon Winslow's body gave up, and when he felt something hard slam down into his back, the last thing he heard was his own metallic screams as he blacked out.

Winslow's body was found in an alley on January eleventh.

He was taken to a hospital, rushed in by an ambulance that had been called by a horrified passerby. The doctors, upon inspecting him, refused to believe he was alive, until they noticed that he was very faintly breathing.

Winslow was unconscious for a very long time. Three days passed. He was diagnosed with a concussion, six broken ribs, a fractured arm, and he had a number of cuts that had to be stitched. The doctors came to the conclusion that he had been mugged, but there was clearly more to this story - much, much more. The silver teeth were bizarre and inexplicable (what went on in the Sing Sing dental hygiene experiment, it seemed, had not spread to the rest of the medical world). And even more confounding than that was the poor man's face. They had no idea how to even address the horrific burn that mutilated and crushed half of his face, let alone come up with plausible ideas for how it could have happened. It was clearly older; the flesh was healed but horribly deformed and his eye was beyond repair. There was little they could do, but it was the cause of much talk and speculation.

But not even that could trump the biggest question everyone had: _Who was he?_

Winslow had not bathed in a long time; his hair was unkempt and long, growing past his shoulders now. He was filthy and deformed and very, very thin. It was clear that his living conditions were far from acceptable. His face should have been an indicator to his identity, but deformed as it was, he was not recognized as escaped convict Winslow Leach. And besides, Winslow Leach had been dead for over a month, horrifically crushed and burned and shot to death in a freak accident.

On Monday the fifteenth of January, Swan himself paid a visit to the local hospital.

The workings of the hospital all but stopped. Doctors snuck out of their offices to get a peek at him, patients snuck from their rooms, murmurs of his name echoed through every hallway. But he kept himself hidden behind a large wall of men, and his face covered by his own black silk top hat. He did not speak to anyone; Arnold Philbin addressed the receptionist, telling her that Swan believed a family member was in the hospital. There was no wait time for him. Immediately, the doors were opened, and super star record producer Swan was welcomed with open arms to the hallways of the inner hospital.

When Swan finally spoke, it was directly to the head doctor. "My step brother ran away from home nearly two months ago, we'd been looking _everywhere_ for him," he explained, his voice the perfect, calculated mixture of worry, regret, frustration, and relief. "I didn't want to go to the police, I feared that turning this into as large a matter as a missing persons case would only make things worse. He's a very _troubled_ person, you see. I worried that if he were to see his own name on the news or in the paper anywhere, he would only be further driven to do terrible, terrible things."

Swan was not required to present evidence for his claims. Just his own signature was evidence enough. One would have to be a fool to call _the_ Swan a liar.

Six contracts, a release form, and a two thousand dollar bribe later, Winslow left the hospital. He was drugged to the point of total unconsciousness, and in Swan's lap was a bag full of even more drugs for when he woke up, guaranteed to help Winslow's recovery. In Philbin's lap was another bag; this one contained what Winslow had had on him when he was found: An odd, electronic, metal box, a black leather suit, and a shining silver bird mask with a noticeable dent on the side. Winslow was driven straight to the Swanage, and there he was placed in the little downstairs guest room, one of the smallest rooms in the house which contained nothing but a queen sized bed, a little closet, and a dresser.

Swan kept WInslow unconscious for another twenty-four hours. During this time he had the leather suit washed thoroughly and sent in to have any tears in it repaired, and ordered a servant to remove Winslow's horrible hospital garments and replace them with silky black pajamas. He also tampered with the electronic box, making sure it worked as it had before, checking for any possible damage to the wires. Finding it functioned just as it should, he himself paid Winslow a visit to personally attach the device.

Finally, Swan left Winslow alone, and let the sleeping drugs wear off.

xxx

When Winslow woke up, he truly felt like he had been asleep for at least a year. His whole body felt heavy and yet terribly numb and his limbs were stiff, so stiff he could hardly move them. His head spun; he was so dizzy he could barely think. When he opened his eye he was greeted to a blurry, disorienting world. After a few moments his vision became clearer, but his understanding of the situation did not. He was in a room he was certain he had never seen before in his life.

Panic very, very slowly spread over him. Winslow was too out of it, too drugged and exhausted and disoriented, to fully react. He sat up in bed just a little and looked around. He was on a nice bed, he thought wearily. That was his first thought. He was on a nice bed with a thick, soft sheet. It was cream colored and had little golden stars embroidered here and there. To his right (he had to turn his head a great deal to get a good look, for he was completely blind in his right eye) was a closet, and to his left was a closed door.

Also to his left, closer to him, was a little bedside table with a pretty white lamp. It was the only light in the room, Winslow noticed. There was an overhead light that was currently turned off, but the elegant little white lamp lit up the room nicely all on its own.

There was another thing on the bedside table: a notepad. After a moment of looking at it, too disoriented to take in what it meant at first, Winslow's breath caught in his throat and he felt panic - real panic, panic so severe he actually had an immediate physical reaction - burst within him.

In the bottom right corner of the notepad was a little black raven lying dead on its back.

Winslow reached out to pick up the notepad, and his hand trembled so terribly he almost could not grab it. There was a little note written in eloquent red cursive on the top note:

 _Winslow: hello, welcome back!_

 _Please be gentle with yourself when you wake up. I will come and check on you when I return home tonight, until then stay in bed and rest. Should you need them, there are painkillers and sleeping pills in the top drawer._

 _Try not to overdose._

 _-Swan_

Winslow was still horribly shaken up, and it was hard for him to fully process the words. He had to reread them a few times, and then, finally starting to make some sense of them, he glanced to the bedside table again and noticed the closed drawer. He reached out and then furrowed his brow. His right arm was bent and he could not extend it far enough to reach. His vision still blurry, comprehending his surroundings still hard, it took him a moment to process the fact that he simply had to roll up his sleeve to get a look at what was going on: On his arm was a cast. Was his arm broken?

Panicking now, Winslow looked over the rest of his body. He was not wearing his leather suit. For that matter, he realized to his horror, he was not wearing his mask either. The only familiarity he had was his metal voice box, which thankfully hung around his neck as it should. But where was his mask?! He looked around desperately for it, head whipping back and forth so fast that he grew an awful headache, but could not find it. Trembling terribly, he gingerly felt around with the arm that was not broken. He lifted his shirt up just a bit (his clothes were made of soft, soft silk, softer than anything his finger tips had touched in a long time), and saw bandages wrapped around his waist. What was not covered by bandages, as well as what he could see of his chest beneath his voice box, was covered in dark black and blue bruises. His collarbone had a bandage on it as well.

Why was there no pain, if he was so horribly injured? Winslow wondered wearily, freaking out and yet unable to fully comprehend what was happening. Slowly, his mind returned to the note. _That's right…_ Leaning forward, Winslow settled with using his other arm, the one not in a cast, to grab the drawer and pull it open. Sure enough there were two bottles laying on their side. He picked one up and inspected it. It was a bottle of sleeping pills as Swan had promised. The other one must have been pain medication. How drugged up was he now?!

Winslow had a feeling that the answer was a lot, because he should have been much more afraid than he was, and yet he could hardly form any emotion, let alone keep his train of thought on track at all. This whole situation was wrong. He couldn't remember how he got here, and he had no idea where _here_ was, but he could only assume it was within close proximity to Swan. Was he in the Swanage? The thought made him shiver. He had worked so hard to get into the Swanage only to be thrown out and promptly have his life ruined before. And now here he was, trapped inside.

Too exhausted and disoriented to fully comprehend it all and the mixture of emotions and panicky thoughts swirling through his head making him dizzy, Winslow lay back down on the bed with a soft sigh.

xxx

"Winslow? Winslow?"

The voice that woke Winslow was soft and gentle, but the moment he was awake enough to comprehend it he felt fear as cold as ice rush through his veins and he sat up, eye going wide. "Swan!" he cried out, and his own synthesized voice made him flinch in surprise. Instantly, pain shot through his abdomen and he gasped, clutching his stomach. "What did you do to me?!" Every inch of WInslow's body felt like it was on fire; pain clouded his thoughts and vision.

Swan was standing over the bed. He wore a sky blue vest and a white jacket and he was smiling just a little, and Winslow was not sure if he wanted Swan or himself dead more in that moment. Swan let out a soft little tsk of a noise and shook his head, and there was a tiny smile, barely visible at all, on his lips. "Nothing, Winslow, relax. I didn't hurt you, can't you remember?"

"Remember what?" Winslow asked, tone still aggressive but an edge of fear obvious even in his electric growl of a voice.

"I suppose not, then. Well, you did take a rather severe blow to the head, hm…" Swan stepped away from the bed now, but kept his eyes on Winslow. He watched him for a short moment, silent.

Winslow was still clutching his stomach. It hurt to breathe and his head spun and ached and his whole body felt so sore. He was afraid, unsure of what was wrong with him, hurting so much it was hard to comprehend, and scared - so, so scared. Swan looming over him left him feeling helpless and vulnerable, especially out of his mask and his leather suit. Here, his face was completely exposed, his horrific deformity visible in plain sight, and his body was only covered by the loose, silky material of the pajamas he wore.

"Didn't you take your pain medication like I told you to? You read my note, right?" Swan asked.

"Where's my mask?" Winslow was still too disoriented and much too panicky and in too much pain to handle a coherent conversation, only able to focus on one thing at a time.

"Ah, it, er, sustained a bit of damage. Nasty blow to the head, remember? It probably saved your life, Winslow." Swan explained, and even in the hysteric state Winslow was in he could hear the cold, calculating tone Swan spoke in, the way he thought over every word before he said it, and it made a shiver run through him. "I've sent it to the costume department, don't worry. They've been ordered to fix it or replicate it, whichever is easiest."

"Give it back!" Winslow snapped, forcing himself to sit up - he had been doubled over, curled in on himself as he tried to comprehend and fight back the intense pain. Now, he reached out to Swan, as if he planned to attack, but he had no idea where he was going with this gesture. He was in no position to attack Swan, and Swan clearly knew this, for he did not even flinch as he reached out to grab Winslow by the wrist. He tugged him forward roughly, and Winslow gasped in pain as he was pulled closer.

"Listen to me, Leach. The only reason you're out of that miserable hospital right now is because of me." Swan spoke in a threatening hiss. He tossed a rolled up newspaper onto the bed, but Winslow did not even turn to look. His eye was fixated on Swan and his heart slammed against his chest in fear. Even the pain subsided as if to make room for the terror that rushed through him. "Now, I expect you to be grateful and cooperative, do you understand me? After the stunt you pulled in the Paradise, I had every right to let you live out the rest of your pathetic life in that dingy little shack you call a home."

"Y- You bricked me up! You lied to me, I-"

"I did what I had to do to protect _you_ , Winslow." Swan said, and suddenly he let go of Winslow's wrist and took a step back. "Now, you're going to take two of those painkillers and go back to sleep. I'll be in to check on you in the morning."

Winslow did not say another word. He was speechless; angry and scared and confused and shivering with pain and fear. He watched from his one good eye as Swan gave him a little wave goodbye, a smile, and walked out, shutting the door behind him. Winslow listened very closely for the sound of a lock, but did not hear one. He supposed it would be useless. As he was he could hardly move, let alone stand up and walk away.

Just as Winslow was turning to the pills, something sitting on his bed caught his attention from the corner of his eye. There was the newspaper Swan had tossed. Although he was hurting, curiosity won and he ignored the painkillers for a moment to reach out and grab and unroll it. In big letters right on the front page were the words:

 _SWAN'S SECRET SIBLING, SAFE AND SOUND._


	2. Chapter 2

Winslow spent what felt like an eternity pent up in that little bedroom. Swan would come check on him once or twice a day, usually bringing food with him. At first Winslow dreaded it, wanting nothing more than to be alone, and especially to be as far away from Swan as possible. He was hurting constantly now; the drugs Swan gave him were strong enough to leave him dizzy and out of it but not strong enough to completely dull the pain.

Eventually, however, the loneliness got the better of Winslow and Swan's presence became less upsetting. At least he was not cooped up alone, left with nothing but his pain and his thoughts. And in some ways, the thoughts were worse than the pain. Winslow dwelled on the past two months at every waking moment (and sometimes even when he was asleep they came to him in twisted, horrific nightmares), and it left him feeling empty and hopeless. He had thought, foolishly, that somehow if he left the Paradise that night his life could return to normal. But instead he had lived a life of misery and solitude and spent weeks filthy and starving in a cold, empty apartment.

He had not been able to function on his own. Alone, he was nothing, incapable of living, of even having the most basic life. He was a deformed voiceless monster with no name. The thought haunted Winslow, and for that he grew grateful for Swan's company, brief as it was, for at least it tended to distract him momentarily from his own head.

On one particular occasion, when Swan came in with a bowl of soup, one particular memory that Winslow had up until now been too drugged up or exhausted to dwell on returned. Sitting up to take the soup from Swan, he peered into the bowl as he said thoughtfully, "When I was living alone, I would go days without eating and not even realize it. It was like I didn't even need food anymore."

Swan had sat down on the edge of the bed to watch Winslow eat. Presently, Winslow was simply feeling the way the ceramic bowl (which had a little Death Records raven on it) was warmed by the hot soup, tentatively pressings his fingers to it, too anxious about his statement to eat yet and distracted by the sensation of the warmth against his fingertips.

"Did you have a clock in your apartment, Winslow?"

"What?" Winslow looked up at Swan with confusion.

"Or a calendar, maybe?"

"N- No." Winslow shook his head. He didn't have a calendar or a functioning clock; if he did, he certainly had not bothered to find or use either during his short stay back home.

Swan smiled and reached out to pat Winslow on the leg, which made him flinch and tense up. Swan chuckled. "How were you keeping track of time, then? How often you went to sleep? I'd be willing to make a hefty bargain that you weren't starving yourself for nearly as long as you thought. With all that was going on back then, I'm sure it wasn't easy keeping track of how many days were going by."

Winslow furrowed his brow, watching Swan carefully with his one good eye, looking at his face and trying to read his expression for even the most subtle clue as to if he was being honest. Swan, currently, was smiling pleasantly at him, waiting patiently for Winslow's response. Hesitantly, unsure of himself but wanting to stand his ground, Winslow said, "I know how much time went by. At one point, it was at least a week."

Swan pat Winslow's leg again and Winslow shifted a little to get away from him. Swan stood up now. "Don't be silly, Winslow. No human can go that long without eating." With that he turned and walked to the door, and Winslow, unsettled but trying to convince himself that he was pleased with this explanation, hesitantly took a sip of the soup. The soup was still hot and it burned his tongue a little; he winced and grimaced and forced himself to quickly swallow. By the time he had opened his eye and looked up again, he realized Swan had already left, and shut the door behind him.

There was another time when Swan came in with a small vegetable platter. Winslow had been asleep then, and Swan had wasted no time waking him up, taking hold of his shoulder and not-particularly-gently shaking him to consciousness. "Hungry, Winslow?" he had asked.

Winslow was at first too out of it to respond, let alone fully comprehend Swan's words, but he had sleepily accepted the plate. Swan stood over him, watching him curiously and not saying a word, as Winslow began to wake up and fully understand what had been given to him. Still out of it, he groggily picked up a piece of celery, eyeing it for a moment, and then took a bite.

"Your teeth," Swan said suddenly, and Winslow glanced up to him curiously. He watched Winslow for another moment. "How do you like them?"

The question was so very random that it caught Winslow off guard; in the exhausted and drugged up state he was in, he could hardly even comprehend it. "Um." He looked at the piece of celery in his hand, half of it bitten clean off. Then he reached up to very hesitantly run a finger over a silver canine. "It never stops feeling… weird."

"Weird?" Swan echoed, raising an eyebrow. Winslow turned to him just fast enough to see a smile flicker over his lips. "Don't be ungrateful, Winslow. Do you know how many people would love to have what you have?" Winslow blinked, not following. "Think of all of the limitations that have been completely removed from your life! You can eat anything, you never have to worry about infection or cavities."

Winslow looked down at the tray of vegetables. His appetite had declined greatly. His teeth never did stop feeling weird. And _wrong_. He had grown somewhat used to them now, but it certainly did not mean they felt natural in his mouth. They always felt a little too cold, like they could never quite acclimate to the temperature of the rest of his mouth. When his tongue brushed against them the texture felt off, too smooth. And they were sharper than his natural teeth had ever been. He had learned to be especially careful not to bite his lip or his tongue or his cheek; it was practically guaranteed to lead to a terrible, bloody cut that would take ages to heal.

With a bitterness and anger he could not contain, Winslow snapped the words, " _Teeth are a source of infection, and it pays to be on the safe side._ " He could still remember that phrase all too clearly. He could remember the terror as the reality of the words had first dawned on him, and the sinking feeling of hopelessness that had settled in the pit of his stomach when he had realized that there was no way out. No amount of talking or running could get him out of having his teeth removed. He shivered and set the plate down, no longer hungry.

Swan chuckled a little as he watched Winslow. Winslow heard the sound but refused to look up at him, refused to see the look on the other man's face. He kept his eye on his own knees, and he could feel himself trembling lightly. _The Swan Foundation_ , Winslow still remembered hearing the words. And he could remember all of the absolute terror that had remained in him constantly: when he first found out the procedure would take place, as he waited outside for the surgery, as he recovered. He could still remember the pain and the fear, and it was all Swan's fault.

"Winslow?" Swan asked suddenly. From the corner of his eye Winslow saw Swan toss something, and then he felt something hit his leg and he turned to see the bottle of sleeping pills sitting against him. "Why don't you get some rest, Winslow? You look exhausted."

"I was just sleeping." Winslow said softly, very disturbed by his own thoughts, even more uncomfortable with Swan's presence than ever before.

Swan nodded. "Exactly." He smiled. "I disturbed you while you were sleeping. Why don't you finish that nap I so rudely interrupted?" He picked the plate up off the bed and set it on the bedside table. "You can eat when you wake up, how does that sound?"

Winslow was clearly still tense over the entirety of Swan's visit, and he took a moment to relax enough to think over Swan's words in an intelligent manner. "Alright." he said at last, finding that he did not have the will to try to fight with Swan. He had nothing to say that he had not said before, and nothing that Swan would not instantly be able to refute. And besides, he was tired and in pain, and he did not care to waste energy with yelling and accusations.

"Good boy," Swan said with a nod. Winslow almost changed his mind about not caring to fight, finding Swan's response to be humiliating and demeaning. "You get some rest, I'll be back later."

With that, Swan had left.

Luckily, for the most part conversations between Winslow and Swan typically remained minimal and casual. Swan tended to ask how he was doing often, and Winslow would give short responses, rarely going into much detail past one or two word replies - "sore," "head is hurting," "dizzy," and "stomach ache" were common ones.

Winslow never could quite get over his lack of a mask, however. It was the one thing that, no matter how many silver linings to Swan's presence he could try to come up with, he could never actually ignore or forget. There was a deep sense of humiliation each time he realized how exposed he was, how horrible and awful and deformed he looked, visible for all the world to see. He supposed the fact that no one but Swan ever saw him in such a state was a bit of a relief; at least he did not have others coming in to see how horrible he looked. But in some ways, Swan of all people being the one who got such a good and frequent look at his scarred, mangled face was worse than anyone else seeing it.

And then one evening Swan came in with a little box. "Winslow, good news!" he said as he entered, promptly shutting the door behind him and walking to the bed. Winslow, who had been half asleep, sat up wearily and looked at Swan with curiosity. "I have a present for you, but you have to do as I say."

"What?" Winslow blinked a few times, until his vision became less blurry and he could get a good look at the box. It was a completely blank cardboard box not much bigger than the size of his head.

Swan sat down on the bed, holding the box in his lap. "You heard me. Winslow, I'm going to need you to take your shirt off, can you do that?"

Winslow's eye went wide. "What? No, wh-"

"I just need to see your stitches, Winslow, relax."

Winslow did relax, a bit comforted now that he understood at least what Swan's intent was. But still, there were plenty other aspects of this situation that completely baffled him. "Stitches?"

Swan chuckled and stood up with the box still in his hands, walked over to Winslow, and tugged lightly on the shoulder of his silky black pajamas. "You haven't noticed? I suppose that's what happens when one spends their entire life drugged up in bed, hm?" Winslow heard the slight hint of condemnation there and clenched his teeth to keep from snapping; he didn't have a choice what he did all day, and it was Swan himself who supplied him with the drugs that kept him bedridden. "You have two wounds that required stitches, Winslow, and they need to be attended to sooner or later. I need to see them." A smile curled on his lips. "Or no present."

Winslow had no idea what "present" Swan was referring to, and could not fathom what could possibly be worth doing this for. But he also knew he was in no position to refuse, and if Swan was telling the truth, he was _right_ \- if he had stitches, they would indeed need to be taken care of. Slowly, he pulled his shirt up and over his head, careful to not let it get caught on his voice box, and placed it beside him. Then he promptly turned around, his back facing Swan stubbornly. He felt goosebumps rise on his skin when Swan responded to that with a soft snicker.

"My God, those bruises look awful…"

Then, much to Winslow's surprise, he felt Swan begin to undo the bandages that had for so long been wrapped around his waist. He glanced back to him, confused. "What're you doing?" he asked.

"One of the stitched up areas is right on your side here, the bandages were covering it." Swan's response was too straightforward, Winslow thought. Not trusting a word that he said, Winslow glanced to the area in question. As Swan pulled the last of the bandages away Winslow found that Swan really had been telling the truth, and he nearly gagged. There was a deep red cut along his side; he turned his head away fast enough that he did not see it in detail. Softly, so quietly Winslow barely heard and process it, Swan mumbled, "Hold still."

Winslow yelped in surprise and pain when he felt cold, wet cloth press to his side, just beneath the cut. For the first time - he had been so drugged up on pain medication until now - he could feel a distinct sting where the injury was. "What are you doing?" Winslow breathed, voice tense. He felt violated, too exposed, the gesture all too intimate on Swan's part, and he wanted to push him away but could not bring himself to.

"Cleaning the wound, Winslow. Relax." Swan sounded annoyed, which made Winslow's stress only increase. Swan being openly, verbally annoyed was worse, in many ways, than him being deceptively, calculatingly polite.

"Swan," Winslow began quietly, shifting with discomfort at the feeling of the wet cloth against his bare skin so near his wound, "when do I go back to see a doctor?"

"What?" Swan chuckled. "In the state you're in, do you really think leaving the Swanage would be a good idea?"

Winslow frowned at that. "A doctor could come here. You have the money for that, I'm sure."

Swan scoffed and shook his head, and without warning shifted the cloth, pressing closer to Winslow's stomach and causing him to tense up a bit. He shivered, the cold dampness making his skin crawl. "You don't need any doctors, Winslow, you've already been to the hospital! You're staying here from now on. Those stitched up wounds of yours should heal in no time, and removing them shouldn't be any trouble. And you already have all of the medicine you need right here in bed with you!"

"Oh." Winslow took in a deep, slightly trembly breath. Surely Swan knew what he was doing; surely he wouldn't let him _die_. If he really got sick, if his cuts got infected or the pain in his ribs got worse, surely Swan would get him to a doctor then.

But when had Swan ever cared about his health - physically or mentally - until now?

Silently pondering this question, Winslow hardly reacted other than to numbly do as told when Swan ordered him to turn to face him. The other cut was just below his collarbone; Winslow could not see it without straining his head quite a bit. He said nothing as Swan cleaned around that one, too uncomfortable and nervous and too many horrible what-if thoughts rushing through his head incessantly.

When Swan finally set the cloth down on the bedside table, Winslow let out a long breath of relief and felt his entire body respond by relaxing and untensing; he had not even realized how tense he had been. "You don't need bandages as long as you keep your shirt on and leave your cuts alone," Swan said, and Winslow grabbed his shirt and eagerly pulled it back on, desperate to cover himself once more. "You did well, though, Winslow! You've earned this."

Swan set the cardboard box - which Winslow had almost forgotten about - on the bed in front of Winslow. Winslow furrowed his brow, hesitant, wondering if this was some sort of trick. He glanced to Swan, who was smiling at him, and then glanced back to the box. Slowly he reached out with the arm that was not currently in a cast, took hold of the box, and pulled it to his lap. It was light.

Curiously, Winslow opened it, and his eye went wide and he gasped aloud.

"My mask!"

Winslow all but ripped the mask from the box and tugged it close, protectively and possessively, to his chest. He kept it there, holding it close for a moment, and then he looked at it, inspecting it intently. It was exactly as it had been before: A two piece helmet, one part that went over his head and the other that covered most of his face and ended in a sharp, owl-like beak. It was a glistening silver, and the light from the little white lamp made it shine. The right eye was covered in order to completely hide his burned, mutilated eye. Winslow took a deep breath, feeling relief and comfort and safety surge through him - Sensations he had not felt in a long, long time.

After a moment more of admiring the helmet that had been one of his only sources of safety and comfort for so long, Winslow gently put it on, careful with it as if worried he would make a mistake and it would be damaged once again. The mask limited his vision just a bit; it was harder to see anything in the corner of his eye. But it was familiar and it was safe and it was one of the only good things he had left.

Then Winslow let out a soft sigh and closed his eye. Swan was momentarily forgotten; even the stinging of his wounds had died down a bit it seemed.

"Enjoy, Winslow." Swan said, pulling Winslow from his thoughts and allowing anxiety to return to him. Winslow looked at Swan through his mask, watching him carefully, wondering if anything more would be asked of him today. But Swan simply walked to the door. "Er, I don't recommend sleeping in that, I imagine it'd be horribly uncomfortable."

Those words of advice were the last thing Winslow heard before Swan shut the door and he was left alone.

xxx

Swan did not force Winslow through the humiliating experience of washing his wounds for him any more, but every other day he would bring a damp washcloth in alongside food so Winslow could tend to them himself.

With his mask back, Winslow felt a small bit of confidence blossom within him. He felt less drowsy, less out of it and hopeless and incapable of doing anything. Within the next few days a sort of antsiness built within him. He felt very trapped; despite the pain he was beginning to grow restless, and with his mask returned to him he no longer feared leaving the bedroom and being exposed to whoever else may be wandering the Swanage (Winslow had no idea who lived here, truth be told - did Philbin stay here? Any girls? Servants? Bodyguards?).

Was he allowed to leave his room? Winslow as unsure. Swan did not lock the door; Winslow could tell that by the way there was no locking sound after Swan left, and no unlocking sound when Swan arrived. But was that an invitation for him to explore the rest of the Swanage should he regain the energy to do so? Or did Swan not expect him to regain that energy in the near future?

Winslow decided, in the end, that it did not particularly matter what Swan thought, and one morning when Swan had not yet come to check on him he very carefully stood up.

His legs were stiff and sore, and at first walking was difficult. His knees popped and his stomach ached a bit, his ribcage constantly sore as the bones slowly healed. Winslow was shaky at first, and he almost considered giving up; perhaps he was not ready to walk around yet after all. He assumed it was his concussion that made him feel so dizzy; he felt like he was going to fall over. But the thought of remaining cooped up in here any longer was dreadful to him, and with a deep breath, Winslow clenched his metal teeth in determination and walked to the door. As he had thought, it was unlocked, and he carefully stepped out.

The Swanage was bright, overwhelmingly so at first. Winslow squinted and blinked and briefly pulled up the front of his helmet to rub his eye. There were large windows that bright sunlight streamed through. He had not seen sunlight in a while… Surprisingly, the light brought even more confidence to Winslow. He really was out of that stuffy little room. _Finally_. Encouraged by this, he looked around, trying to figure out what to do next.

He was in a hallway, clearly far from the front of the Swanage where the grand staircase led to the upstairs. Winslow had no idea where he wanted to go, and, deciding to wander aimlessly until he came to a decision about what exactly he was trying to do, he turned and walked down the hallway.

There was a doorway on the right. Winslow curiously walked to it and found himself in what he realized was a kitchen. It was a mostly white room; the floor was white tiles and the walls were a creamy white. There was a large refrigerator, a counter with multiple cooking tools, shelves on the walls, an oven, a stove, a sink, a table, and…

A person.

Winslow froze in the doorway when he realized he was not alone. Sat at the table was a person - a man with curly, golden hair. There was a grapefruit in front of him, cut in half, that he was currently working at with a serrated spoon. He wore a loose red crop top that Winslow saw did not quite reach his belly. The fact that Winslow even noticed that made his cheeks go hot and he shook his head, as if exasperated with himself, and turned to exit in hopes of sneaking off before he as noticed.

"What are _you_?!"

Winslow froze where he stood, a sinking feeling of defeat coupled with anxiety filling him as he reluctantly turned back around to face the curly haired stranger, who was standing up now, his brow furrowed. The man jumped at the sight of Winslow's face - or what he could see of it. Only the very edge of his scar was visible, everything else was covered by his mask. But he supposed that that was not less frightening or threatening to someone who did not know better.

"I'm-" _Winslow Leach the composer_ seemed like a bad answer, Winslow thought, remembering that to the rest of the world he was a dead convict. "It doesn't matter. Who are you?"

"Wh- Why do you talk like that?!" the man asked now, eyes going wide in what could only be described as horror and taking a step back.

Winslow noticed the way Beef's eyes had briefly darted to the flashing red and blue of his voice box and he felt himself grow embarrassed, remembering suddenly how bizarre his electric growl of a voice sounded to anyone but Swan, really. He swallowed and reached out to gently touch his voice box. "It's just how I talk. It- it doesn't matter." He turned to exit once more, hoping that somehow this entire thing would be forgotten.

"You think you can just walk in on me during breakfast dressed up like an avian serial killer and not even tell me your name?!" The man called out now, sounding genuinely offended, Winslow thought, and perhaps a bit intimidated. Threatened, even. Winslow also noted that he had a lisp, and his voice was high and soft and a little whiny, a tone that betrayed his appearance, his muscular, powerful-looking build. But then again, his facial features were softer, he might have been wearing light makeup (Winslow had certainly not paid close enough attention to be certain), and he _was_ wearing a red crop top. Winslow realized he may have been just as perplexed by the stranger as the stranger was of him.

Oh. Winslow suddenly remembered things that had not been on his mind in weeks, and he understood. His eye widened and turned around and said, "You're Beef." The one who had performed instead of Phoenix, the man Swan had used to betray him with. He knew the name; it had been everywhere after the Paradise opened. It probably still was. "Faust" had been a success, Beef was a superstar, and now Winslow was staring at him as he ate breakfast in a crop top in the Swanage kitchen.

The man's face looked a little redder than it had a moment ago, and he looked around as if hoping some cosmic entity would offer him an explanation for Winslow's very existence. "That's right." he said tersely, eyes remaining stubbornly on the grapefruit half that he had been struggling with a moment ago.

"What are you doing in the Swanage?" Winslow asked, very, very offended by Beef's presence now that he had realized who he was speaking to. Beef was the reason Swan had bricked him up. He was the reason Phoenix had not performed. He had been the catalyst that had caused Swan to go back on his promise and ruin his life even further, deprive him of his one chance of his dreams ever being realized after all of the suffering he had undergone at his hands.

Beef reluctantly turned to look at Winslow once more. "I _live here_. Chill out."

"Here? In the Swanage?"

Beef had clearly realized that Winslow was not an immediate threat despite his appearance, for he rolled his eyes dramatically and nodded before sitting back down. "Well, duh, it's not like I have time to fly back to Cincinnati after every single performance. I swear to God, I'm performing every other goddamn day right now. And besides, the tour starts in just a month. It just makes sense. …What's _your_ excuse?"

"What?" Winslow had felt dehumanized and a bit hurt when Beef had been scared of him before, but he was starting to prefer it to the snippy, cocky attitude he was suddenly sporting

"What're _you_ doing in the Swanage at eight in the morning? _Who are you?!_ "

Winslow truly did not know how to answer that question. He was dead, he thought. To the entire rest of the world, Winslow Leach was a dead man. And then he remembered Swan's lie, the lie that had plastered the front of the newspaper, that every news reporter had greedily eaten up just like how they ate up every piece of information about Swan they could get their hands on.

Winslow knew who he was to the rest of the world now, and even as he said it he felt dread and disgust fill him. "I'm Swan's step brother," he muttered.

Beef furrowed his brow. " _You_? I- I saw the article about you, when I asked Swan he said to just forget about it so I tried to but I was so confused, I... what… what the hell happened?"

"It doesn't matter," Winslow shook his head. "Where's Phoenix?"

"...What?" Beef was clearly completely caught off guard by the question. His eyebrows rose and he stared at Winslow, and he looked like he was trying to determine whether or not Winslow was sane enough to continue the conversation.

"Phoenix… She's a singer. She has long brown hair; she was hired by Swan before you replaced her." Winslow explained, his voice soft and his frustration with Beef momentarily forgotten as he thought of Phoenix. He had let her down… She was so wonderful, so talented and beautiful and sweet and kind, and Winslow had wanted so badly to see her succeed. And he had failed, and Swan had betrayed him, and Beef had replaced her. "I… I need to know what happened to her."

Beef thought for a moment, picking up his grapefruit spoon and staring at his own distorted reflection in it thoughtfully. Finally, he let out a little "Oh!" and turned back to Winslow. "I think I know the chick you're talking about. She was a backup singer in 'Faust,' yeah?" Winslow nodded; truthfully, he had no idea what part Phoenix had played or if she had been on stage at all. He did not know the extent of Swan's betrayal, and he certainly did not know the extent of Beef's knowledge. But he seemed to have an idea of what Winslow was talking about, at least. "Yeah, she quit after the show. Stormed out of the Paradise all angrily. I dunno if anyone's heard from her since." He shrugged and went back to his grapefruit.

Winslow's eye widened. Phoenix was gone?

Where was she now?! Panicking, without saying another word to Beef Winslow ran out out of the kitchen, all but sprinting down the hallway. When he reached the end he stopped dead in his tracks and gasped. He was at the front of the Swanage. Memories flooded back to him; he could practically hear his own song being sung, over and over and over, echoing through the halls as dozens of girls waited in line to audition, to sing his stolen music. He could all but hear Phoenix's pretty voice floating through the huge room. He looked up at the staircase they had met on and his heart sank. While he had been cooped up in the bedroom he had not had time to think about her, he had nearly forgotten about her… But now he remembered her, and now he was horribly, painfully aware of the fact that he had failed her, and he felt an overwhelming sense of guilt run through him and leave him feeling sick to his stomach.

He had to find Phoenix.

Not thinking straight, not caring about anything but Phoenix, Winslow ran to the door, shoved it open, and ran outside. The sunlight was intense and blinding at first and Winslow winced and covered his eyes as he ran. He had never seen the Swanage in the daylight, but he did not care enough to turn around and look now. He needed to get away from it, to leave it behind him and never return. All he cared about was finding Phoenix, whatever it took, and fixing this. Apologizing to her, giving her his music, giving her a career and making her name even more famous than Beef's and Swan's and the Juicy Fruits' combined.

Winslow had just made it to the gate that guarded the Swanage when he felt a horrible pain seize up within him. He gasped and stopped running, clutching his stomach. His breathing grew ragged and it became hard to think. He shook his head as if telling himself to get over it, to ignore it, to keep going, but it only made him realize how dizzy he was.

Winslow forced himself to move forward but his pace slowed tremendously. His vision was blurry and he was so disoriented that it took him a moment to process where the actual front of the gate was. He walked - or rather, limped - to it and placed a hand on the bar of the gate, as if wanting to shove it open, but he did not have the strength to do so. So instead he gripped the bar tightly, using it as a way to keep himself upright, while he tried to recover from the pain. His chest felt like it was on fire; he could barely breathe and his whole body ached and his stomach throbbed. He was so dizzy…

"Phoenix…" Winslow panted out the name, clinging to the thought of her to keep going just as hard as he was currently clinging to the front gate. He could feel his own heart pounding in his ears and his throat burned.

"Winslow…?"

Winslow heard his name but hardly processed it. Then he felt someone place a hand on his arm and he flinched, surprised, and turned quickly.

Behind him stood Swan. Winslow felt his blood run cold and he drew in a weak breath. "Swan, I-"

"What are you doing out here, Winslow?" Swan asked, and he sounded exasperated and disappointed. He tightened his grip on Winslow's arm just a little bit.

"What did you do to me?!"

Swan smiled a little. "You've already asked me that, and I've already told you I haven't done a thing. Relax." These words made Winslow want to do anything but relax, and he stubbornly yanked his arm free of Swan's grasp. Swan shook his head again. "I'm afraid this is on you, Winslow."

Winslow blinked, confused, and was too disoriented and his body hurt too much for him to form a response.

So Swan continued, "Did you take anything before your little, erm, adventure? Any painkillers?"

"N- No…"

"I didn't think so." Swan made a beckoning motion with his head and turned around to walk back to the Swanage. Winslow, unable to think straight and unsure of what else he could possibly do in this situation and well aware that in his room there were drugs that would make this pain go away, followed. "Did you really think that with the injuries you have you'd be able to just run away? Tsk," Swan glanced back to make sure Winslow was following him before shaking his head again. "I suppose I should thank you for trying to run off, though. It made me realize something." He stopped walking.

Winslow stopped too and looked down at Swan. He was dizzy and nauseous and aching and Swan's words were hard to follow, but that did not make him feel any better about the situation. Even as he struggled to comprehend what was happening he could feel a great amount of trepidation and embarrassment and regret within him. And deep in the back of his mind he could still picture Phoenix, and he still wondered where she was, and he still felt a sense of urgency telling him that he must find her as soon as he possibly could.

"Do you know what it's made me realize, Winslow?" Swan asked impatiently, clearly a little frustrated that even a casual conversation was nearly impossible in Winslow's current state.

Winslow shook his head in an attempt to snap himself free of his thoughts, which only served to make himself a bit dizzier. "No, uh, what?"

Pleased with Winslow finally supplying a response, Swan answered, "It made me realize that you may not capable of taking care of yourself at all. First you go and get yourself so horribly mangled up, and now this? If this is how you're going to behave, I may very well have to keep you under my supervision forever."


	3. Chapter 3

After a heavy dosage of painkillers and sleeping drugs, Winslow was sent to bed for the rest of the day. He slept for a long time, and even when he finally did wake up he was much too out of it to do anything, let alone form much of a coherent thought, and when Swan came in with dinner he simply rolled over onto his other side, a silent plea to be left alone.

And left alone he was, at least for the rest of the evening. Even despite an exhaustion so heavy and oppressive over him that he could barely think, he still felt horribly defeated. There was no fear or anger now - just a dull numbness, a deep sense of failure and ruin that seemed to drape over him like a blanket and cover him all over, suffocating him. Winslow took an extra sleeping pill that night, a desperate attempt to at least force himself out of his own thoughts. At least when he was asleep he was not dwelling on the fact that his entire life was now spent locked away, bedridden and injured and hurting and dizzy and drugged, in a tiny little room in Swan's mansion.

The next morning, Winslow was woken by Swan, who grabbed his shoulder and shook him as he called, "Winslow, wake up! We've got an early morning today!"

"What?" Winslow blinked, groggy and drowsy and disoriented. He reached instinctively for his mask and slipped it on over his head, and then sat up a little, looking around.

"You and I are going on a field trip today, Winslow." Swan explained, and Winslow was beginning to wake up enough to see the smile on Swan's lips. "You're going to need to swallow some pills and get ready to go as fast as you can; Philbin went on ahead of us and I'd just hate to keep him waiting."

Winslow sleepily processed these words. They were going somewhere? The thought filled him with curiosity and excitement, but also anxiety. He did not want to be out in public; to be completely honest, despite how miserable Winslow often felt here, leaving the Swanage at all sounded a bit terrifying to him. But he was too tired to think about it all now, and he knew he would not be able to fight or talk his way out of it anyway. He yawned and pushed his mask up to rub his eye, trying to wake himself up more, and then turned to look at Swan expectantly.

Swan, Winslow noted, was all dressed up this morning. He wore a striped lavender vest with a white coat and matching white dress pants and gloves. Hanging from his neck, attached to a long silver chain, was what looked like some sort of crystal pendant. Amethyst, Winslow's tired mind supplied as he stared at the dark purple gem.

"Where are we going?"

"You'll see!" Swan replied. His voice was sing-song; he sounded gleeful and excited and that made Winslow dread the outing even more, but still he stood up. "Across the hallway is a bathroom, why don't you wash up? Your stitches should be fine so long as you don't soak them, and, ah, there's some lipstick and eyeliner behind the mirror if you'd prefer being made up for the outing." Swan then opened the drawer on the beside table and took out the bottle of pain medication. It was significantly lighter than it had been when Winslow had first arrived. "And no running off this time. I'll hold onto these, you come find me in the kitchen when you're ready." Swan walked to the door and opened it. "You know where that is, right?"

Without another word, he left.

Winslow felt something close to humiliation sink in his stomach as he was reminded of his attempt at escaping (which, really, had been more of simply an attempt at exploration that had gone awry by his own emotions). Phoenix still lingered in his mind, but thoughts of her were always coupled with thoughts of shame and hopelessness that he simply did not have the energy to dwell on. So he took in a deep breath and stood up. He was less shaky on his feet this time, and it did not take him as much effort to walk to the door, open it, and exit the bedroom into the Swanage hallway.

Just a few feet down the hall was another door, and Winslow walked to it and hesitantly opened it, peeking inside. As Swan had promised, it was a bathroom. A very large, very clean bathroom, with a great big tub (Winslow had the quite frankly rather mean thought that if Swan was not careful, it would be all too easy for him to drown in it) and a stack of clean white towels beside it. He stepped inside, shut the door behind him, and then noticed that, speaking of Swan's size, the sink was short - short enough that Winslow would have to bend down a bit to wash his hands. The mirror, too, was diminutive in size, just cutting off at Winslow's jaw and again, if he ever wanted to use it properly he would be forced to bend over to see his own face (or, his mask).

He had not had the time or energy or focus to think about it before, but he glanced back now and looked behind him to see that the door he had come through was short, shorter than the average door, and he had been instinctively ducking to walk through the doorways of the Swanage. The thought should have amused Winslow. In a normal situation he may have found Swan's apparent insecurity regarding - or at least, desperation not to think about - his height to be funny. But instead it left uneasy and furthered his feeling of being trapped. This whole world was suited for Swan, not him, and no matter how long he stayed here, bedridden and reliant on the man who had lied to him and ruined his life, he would never quite fit - literally.

Winslow tried to shrug these thoughts off and focus instead on doing as Swan had directed. _Why don't you wash up?_ Winslow could not remember the last time he had showered. He assumed he had been cleaned up during his time at the hospital, but it had been at least a week since that.

Just the thought of undressing was hell to Winslow. Although the clothing he wore was light and did not particularly cover him very well, being nothing but thin pajamas, at least he had the comfort of being covered at all. Even before imprisonment and before the horrific accident, he had preferred being covered, always modest and shy around others and absolutely abhorring the feeling of being too exposed (the memory of ever being shirtless around Swan made him shiver still and he did his best - every day - to shove that thought down in hopes that someday it would be forgotten entirely). His casual attire had been made up of turtlenecks and scarves and sweatpants and slacks and long coats. In prison he had not had the luxury of privacy even in showers, and he felt his skin crawl at the horrible memories of countless crowded, cold, rushed showers, where he had no personal space and no safety and after each one he was bitterly reminded that that would be every single shower for the rest of his life.

And in the state he was in now, his face mangled and his body thinner than it had ever been and covered all over in cuts and bruises, with memories of such terrible showers and the knowledge that Swan was so very near, even being naked alone was something Winslow did not want to think about, although he knew it was a silly fear, something that he would inevitably have to face eventually.

The first thing Winslow did was step away from the mirror, so that he could not see even an inch of his own body in it. For once he was truly grateful for Swan's attempt at creating a Swan-sized world, as the mirror not reaching his face saved him at least the trouble of trying not to look at his own reflection. He carefully took off his voice box and set it down, and then pulled his shirt up and over his head with the arm not in a cast and let it drop on the floor. Then he looked down at his own exposed chest. The bruises were not as bad as they had been a week ago; they had faded a bit and the skin, though still not its natural tone in most areas, was at least losing the deep blue and purple marks that had covered his flesh before.

In the corner of his eye he could see the stitched up scar on his side, but Winslow did his best to ignore it, not wanting to give it too much thought as just thinking about it too long made him sick. Not just the sight of it or the thought of having stitches in his skin - There was also the fact that he very, very much did not want to be reminded of Swan forcing his shirt off to clean it. Winslow gently placed a hand on his own stomach, just near his ribs, and when there was no immediate pain he drew in a deep breath, trying to regain some confidence. He was alone, there was nothing to be self conscious or nervous about, he tried to tell himself, and he kept his eyes off of the small sink with the small mirror.

Winslow slipped out of his pants next and very briefly glanced down at his own lower body. There was a scar on his leg, just above his thigh, where he had been hit with a bullet. He shivered at the sight of it, horrible memories flooding back. Memories of utter and total agony, panic and terror and pain so severe he couldn't think, blood everywhere and the smell of his own burning flesh blocking all other senses. The bullet wound had been an afterthought, secondary to the fact that an entire half of his face had been melted and crushed and disfigured beyond use or recognition.

Drawing in a deep breath, Winslow shook his head and attempted to rid himself of the thought. He reluctantly took his mask and helmet off, and looked around for a place to safely leave it. The toilet caught his eye and he walked to it, and immediately he noticed two things:

Firstly, there was a big, black plastic bag, a rubber band, and a small note on the toilet.

But secondly, and to Winslow a much more urgent matter, there was the fact that he could not for the life of him remember the last time he had gone to the bathroom. Or needed to go at all, for that matter.

The thought made Winslow freeze and he stood there, totally naked and staring at the toilet and trying to comprehend this realization, thinking over the past few weeks, and then the past few months. It was the same bizarre confusion that came with the shocking realization that he no longer felt hunger - Swan's explanation, while he had reluctantly accepted it, still did not sit right with him. There was little he could do with the information now, naked in the bathroom, but he made a mental note to tell Swan. Unlike his lack of hunger, this was something he could prove; after all, he had been in Swan's care for days now, and Swan knew perfectly well he had been bedridden for the majority of the time.

Shaken by the thought but attempting for now to ignore it, Winslow walked to the toilet, gently set down his mask, and picked up the note.

 _Use the bag and the rubber band to cover your cast when you shower. -Swan_

Winslow glanced to his own arm. He had almost forgotten about the cast; other than being unable to fully stretch his arm it did not hinder too much and he had grown used to it. But it was better not to get it wet, wasn't it? He sighed and set the note down before picking up bag and the rubber band. He fumbled with them a bit, trying to figure out what to do with them, and eventually managed to get the bag over his arm and tie it off with the rubber band. It looked awkward and silly and he stared at it for a moment with uncertainty, but finally he got over the strange sight of his arm hidden in the black bag and walked to the tub.

Winslow did not realize it was possible to be out of practice at _showering._ But it had been a whole seven months since he had last taken a proper shower, and the amount of time he spent toying with the faucet to try to figure out how to get the water to come out of the shower head and at an appropriate temperature was frankly embarrassing and served only as yet another reminder of how long he had been imprisoned, forced to attempt to get clean as he was shoved around in the public showers, all privacy and modesty robbed from him. However, any negative emotion promptly left him as he actually got into the tub, closed the shower curtain, and felt warm water rush over him for the first time in longer than he could remember.

Letting out a little gasp of surprise, Winslow went momentarily still, letting the warm water pour from the shower head all over him and reveling in the feeling. It was the most comforting sensation - and quite frankly, the most pleasant - he had experienced in a long, long time, and as he ran a hand through his own long, increasingly dampening curls he breathed out a little sigh. He had never expected to be in a position where a warm shower was something incredible and unexpected and amazing to him; never did he think that would no longer be the norm. But now it was new and practically incomprehensible in its wonderfulness, and Winslow was surprised to find that his own natural reaction to the entire situation was a sudden need to sing.

The painful realization that he could not do that brought Winslow back to reality just a bit and reminded him of where (and what) he was now. He drew in a breath and reached up to gingerly touch his own throat.

Still, this did not totally ruin the shower, and even after Winslow had been pulled out of his brief bout of unbridled optimism he was able to enjoy it. The cuts were a bit sensitive in the water and he did his best to keep them out of direct contact, and although he could not feel much in the right side of his face, most of the nerves melted off, he did his best to keep that out of the way too. He took some time washing his hair (Swan Brand shampoo and conditioner; it smelled like roses), as the feeling of running his hands through his own long hair was a foreign one after so long of keeping it covered by a mask, and it enjoyed it greatly.

Soon enough, however, Winslow reluctantly left the shower, knowing he could not be in there forever, that Swan was waiting for him, that the water could eventually damage his cuts, and beginning to miss the feeling of being clothed.

Drying off with one of the soft white towels and then keeping it wrapped around his body, Winslow then removed the bag from around his cast and threw it away, and walked to the sink with the mirror behind it. Keeping his eyes off of his reflection, he pulled at the edge of the mirror, and found it opened like a cabinet. Behind it was - as Swan had promised - eyeliner and lipstick, both black. He reached out, took the makeup in his hands, and then let out a sigh. As much as he wanted to wear it, he was hesitant. Applying makeup meant looking in the mirror, something he was not sure he was quite ready to do…

But he really _did_ like the aesthetic…

Sighing, Winslow very, very, very slowly bent down a bit so that he could see just a bit more of his face in the mirror. He winced at the sight of the right side of his face, red and mangled and scarred beyond recognition. He leaned further down, enough that he was now eye level with the mirror, and suck in a breath. He could see the little black raven that had been burned into his skin, and after a short second of looking at his own face, before he had the chance to look at his right eye - knowing he would be too revolted, too horrified with what he would see - he quickly reached up to cover the right half with his hand. With his scar covered he almost looked like his old self, Winslow thought, a pang of nostalgic longing hitting him. So long as he did not open his mouth and see his teeth…

The next few minutes were spent carefully applying a thick layer of eyeliner around Winslow's functioning eye and painting his lips dark black. When he was pleased with that he quickly straightened himself up, eager to no longer look at himself, and walked to his mask and put it on. He sighed with relief at that. Now all that was left to do was figure out what to wear. If he was going out it was probably a bad idea to wear those silky, loose pajamas, but Swan had not provided him with anything else.

Covered in nothing but a towel and his mask, Winslow nervously stepped to the door and opened it, peeking out. Should he check the closet in his room? He was just about to risk venturing out of the bathroom when he noticed that in front of him was a little pile of folded clothes. Had Swan left these for him?

Winslow picked up the pile and then shut the door again. The clothes must have been for him, he thought, for they were certainly too big for Swan. The pants were dark grey denim, nothing he would ever wear on his own accord. But the shirt was what baffled him the most. It was black, and in shiny, rose gold, metallic looking letters near the top of the shirt the word BEEF was printed. Beneath that was a silhouette of the profile of a person's face, outlined in gold light. They held a microphone to their mouth, and Winslow could see curls on the top of their head. This was a shirt for Beef. Swan had given him a Beef shirt, a cheap concert souvenir.

If he had not been standing naked in the bathroom, Winslow would have protested. But as it was it felt useless to complain, and he very unenthusiastically got dressed. He put on his voice box after that, and after testing it out to make sure it was on right by saying Beef's name a few times - the first word that came to mind, as it was printed in huge letters on the front of his shirt - he finally felt confident enough to leave the bathroom.

How long had he been in there? Winslow felt like it had been an eternity, and he was rather grateful for the change in scenery when he finally exited and wandered down the hallway, to the kitchen. He was more aware this time of the low doorways and he noticed the way he had to duck to enter.

Sitting at the table was Swan. He smiled when he saw Winslow and said, "Ah, Winslow, finally! Come, come, let's get a move on, I put your painkillers in the limousine already, you can take them when we get out there." Winslow nodded, unsure of what to say. Swan stood and began to walk to the door on the other side of the kitchen and Winslow followed with uncertainty.

xxx

Winslow had never been in a limousine before and found himself incredibly interested in the vehicle. It was roomier than any other car he had been in before and he was grateful that he did not have to be pressed up against Swan for the entirety of the ride. He swallowed two painkillers dry on the drive and spent the majority trying to avoid conversation with Swan, instead opting for looking out the window and trying to figure out where they were going. Swan, thankfully, remained quiet for the most part, although at one point he did compliment Winslow's shirt with a snicker.

Truthfully, Winslow truly had no idea where they could be heading, unable to even come up with possibilities as to where Swan would even want to take him. Some sort of press conference, where he would pose as his "brother," perhaps? Or had Swan changed his mind about his refusal for Winslow to see a doctor?

It was not until they were a block away from their destination that Winslow finally let out a gasp of surprise and turned to Swan, understanding but not. "The Paradise?"

"Very perceptive, Winslow!" Swan chuckled. "I thought you might want to get out of the Swanage; after your stunt yesterday it was clear you were just _dying_ for some fresh air, hm?"

Winslow felt panic rise within him. He did not want to return to the Paradise. Visions of brick walls and steel doors and long, exhausting, endless nights locked away writing danced in his head. "Why?" he asked accusingly, terrified of what Swan may have had in mind for him there. "I'm not going back down there, Swan, I'm not letting you trap in there again-"

"Relax, Winslow, relax." Swan rolled his eyes. "You're not being trapped anywhere; this limousine is the most confining place you'll be today."

Winslow watched Swan, waiting desperately for more of an explanation, but Swan did not give one. Rather, he turned to look out the window, and Winslow sat, fidgeting with anticipation and anxiety as the car stopped at the front of the theatre. Winslow followed Swan inside (noting the way Swan casually raised a hand to cover his own face until he was safely inside of the theatre despite the fact that no one seemed to be watching them; he had always been extremely private, never daring to show his face in the media, but Winslow could not even imagine why he would have reason to be _that_ cautious), and the two walked silently into the huge main hall with the gigantic stage.

Presently, the stage contained five things: A band in the back, toying around with a bass guitar and a keyboard and a drum set, the Juicy Fruits - or the Undead? Winslow was not sure what they were going by now, and did not particularly care to remember - and Beef, front and center, electric guitar in hand and music sheet in front of him.

As Winslow and Swan walked to the stage, Winslow found his eye fixated on Beef. Like Swan he wore a crystal - his was an almost entirely transparent, clear, glass-like crystal that glistened and shone in the stage lights, and it hung low around his neck, resting just below his chest, which was bare. He wore a glittery purple vest, however, and matching, very tight purple pants. Was that glitter in his hair? From a distance Winslow could not be sure, but he had a hunch he was right.

Presently, Beef was strumming at his guitar, playing the same four notes over and over as he eyed the music sheet, looking determined and confused and fixated on it with so much concentration that Winslow wondered if it was in another language. Occasionally he would open his mouth as if he planned to sing, but would then close it and opt for humming the tune instead.

When the two men finally made it to the front of the stage (yes, that was definitely glitter in Beef's hair), a voice snapped in a hushed tone, "Where the hell have you been?!" Winslow turned to see Philbin sitting in front row of the audience. He was a short, round man with slicked back hair, and presently his eyes were on Swan. "I've wasted two fucking hours of my life with these four." He threw a hand out at the stage, pointing angrily at Beef and then moving to point just as accusingly at the Juicy Fruits.

Swan sat down beside Philbin and turned to him. "What happened to his shirt?" he asked, not addressing Philbin's complaints. Winslow did not sit down, but stood awkwardly in the aisle, watching the two men and then looking back at the stage. Beef and Philbin both had not seemed to notice him yet, and while he was thankful for that, he also knew that it was inevitable that they would eventually be made aware of his presence.

Philbin let out a very long, very tired sigh. "His sexiness evaporated it." he said, voice lifeless, devoid of all emotion but exhaustion. After a moment of silence, Swan clearly not being able to even fathom a response to this, Philbin rolled his eyes and added, "Lost the damn thing in the dressing room, I'll bet." He groaned aloud now. "He spent _forty-five minutes_ getting ready this morning - It's not even a dress rehearsal!"

Winslow quickly grew tired of listening to Philbin's complaining; he was anxious and uncomfortable here, out of place and all too aware of the fact that the last time he had been out here he had fully intended to blow up three of the people standing on that stage. He fidgeted a little, looking between Swan and Philbin and then glancing to the stage. Beef still had not noticed him.

"What am I doing here, Swan?" Winslow asked, unable to contain his anxiety anymore, knowing that this would make himself known but also incapable of handling the stress of staying silent any longer. His voice, electric and artificial and absolutely no good at modulation, echoed through the Paradise and he heard Beef's guitar playing come to an abrupt stop.

"You!" Beef cried. Winslow jumped and looked up at the stage, and his eye met Beefs'. Beef stared with shock as he asked, "What are you doing here?!"

Swan stood up. "Relax, Beef," he said, and Winslow saw that he was smiling just a bit. Beef turned to look at Swan now, and his mouth hung open in shock and confusion. "Forgive my lateness; I've brought a very special guest to rehearsal today. This is Winslow Leach, the man who wrote the, ah, framework of your cantata." He turned to Winslow now, and Winslow could feel hatred rising within him towards Swan - a cold, bitter, renewed hatred he had not felt in a long time, not to this intensity. _Framework?_ He had known the moment he had first realized that Swan had gone back on his promise that "Faust" would not be performed at all in the way he had written or envisioned it, but how much _had_ Swan changed it? Angry as he was, Winslow did not have time to dwell on this, for Swan now addressed him, saying, "Winslow, this is Beef. He's a phenomenon."

"We've met already," was Winslow's terse response.

"Winslow Leach? The composer?" Beef cried from the stage. He ran to the edge to get a better look at Winslow, and then turned to Swan with confusion. "I thought you were brothers…"

Swan shook his head. "No, no, Beef, forget what the media says. News is just a fancy word for gossip, right? Winslow's no more related to me than you are to Philbin."

Beef was clearly confused, and he looked between the two men again. Winslow wanted to disappear, to slink back into shadows and fade away. But he was stuck here; there was no use in trying to run, and Beef's gaze on him made him immensely uncomfortable, as he did not at all like thinking about what thoughts went through other people's heads when they stared at the mess he had become. Slowly, Beef asked, "But… didn't Winslow Leach… die?"

"Just a fancy word for gossip." Swan repeated. He sat back down and turned to Winslow, ignoring the look of total confusion on Beef's face. "Winslow, I thought you might enjoy sitting in for this rehearsal. Try and relax, feel free to ask any question you may have, and afterwards I would _love_ to know what you think!"

Swan sounded too cheery, Winslow thought, refusing to believe Swan cared even the littlest bit about his opinions or emotions. Swan knew exactly what he was doing, making Winslow so uncomfortable, making him feel so dreadfully out of place. But Winslow knew he had no way to get out of this situation. Very reluctantly he walked to the seats in the front and center of the theatre sat down beside Swan.

Beef watched with a look of concern on his face, but after a moment Philbin called out, "You ain't on break yet, pretty boy. Get back to your work!" Beef tensed in surprise for a moment, then rolled his eyes, sighed, and nodded, walking back over to his music. He began to toy with the guitar again, strumming a few notes and humming to it with uncertainty.

"What's with the crystals?" Winslow asked, glancing from the shimmering glass crystal around Beef's neck to the amethyst one around Swan's, not understanding the reason behind it.

"The tour, Winslow!" Swan replied, turning to look at him as if he had just asked a preposterous, even offensive question. "In just a month we'll be traveling all over the world, performing in places you could never even imagine, in front of crowds greater than you could ever fathom! If we want to stay at the top, we need something fresh. A new look, a new theme. Something the audience will be captivated by."

"And something that makes decent merchandise so they'll wanna buy something after the show." Philbin added, and Winslow noticed that he, too, had a crystal necklace, an orangish gold one.

Winslow frowned. So did it not have a meaning, then? It was just to rake in money? He thought back to the empty lyrics, the dull and repetitive beats and the unoriginal sound the Juicy Fruits had always had. Swan did not build his career on originality. It was built on selfishness, on taking advantage of people, on manipulation. Winslow reached up to gently run a hand over the bottom of his own scar, the small bit of mangled, charred flesh that the mask could not cover. "Why not just perform Faust again?" he asked softly, bitter with himself for even suggesting that his own stolen music - destroyed past recognition just as severely as his own face - be used by Beef and Swan once more. But it made sense, didn't it? That was what had made Beef a star… "It's what everyone liked."

"There's a saying in show business, Winslow." Swan replied, not bothering to look away from the stage as he spoke this time. "A satisfied audience is a starving audience. An audience who is happy with a performance is not content with just that performance, and they sure aren't content with the same performance all over again. The happier you make your crowd the more eager they become for something newer, fresher, bigger. If Beef wants a career, he has to branch out past Faust."

Winslow did not ask anything else, but rather sat back in the large chairs of the Paradise theatre, and eventually pulled his legs up to rest his chin on them as he watched. Beef still had not played anything, and despite Winslow's abhorrence towards their music he almost admired how the Juicy Fruits (or, the Undead?) were willing to just stand there, waiting.

Then Philbin called out, "Can you just _play something_?"

Beef looked up at that with a look of offense on his face, clearly insulted by Philbin's attempt at rushing him. But he let out a little huff, rolled his eyes, brushed a strand of curly hair from his face, and nodded. "Fine." he said, and he leaned forward to flip through a few pages of his music. Winslow watched curiously, impressed by the gentleness in which Beef turned through the pages, although he supposed that that was a silly thing to notice and a very low standard indeed. But still, while he had not gotten the impression that Beef was a particularly violent or destructive person, Winslow was pleasantly surprised by how delicately and respectfully he seemed to handle his music.

As it turned out, however, this music might not have been worth respecting at all.

Winslow knew that as a composer himself he had a tendency to be critical, but this was more than petty judgement. To be blunt, the song was horrible. Beef sounded like he was struggling to sing it, his voice faltering and sometimes dipping an octave or two past his range of comfort. And it was no wonder he had spent so much time simply toying with the chords and tune of the song, the tune was bizarre and jumbled and much too complicated, and not in an interesting way, but in a discordant, messy way.

The lyrics were empty. That was the only word Winslow could quite come up with to describe them. It was all meaningless and boring, a recycled love song that felt like a Frankenstein monster of every other love song that had been released in the past two decades.

"Did Beef write this?" Winslow asked, fearing for a moment that this was some corrupt form of his own music.

Swan shook his head, eyes still not leaving the stage as he was currently fixated on Beef's rehearsal. "Ah, no, we've hired a writer." he explained dismissively. He seemed so focused on Beef that Winslow was caught off guard and ended up tensing a bit when Swan suddenly turned to face him. "We'll talk about it in the car, okay?" he asked, and his voice was oddly quiet; he was whispering the words, so only Winslow would be able to hear them.

But perhaps he was just trying not to interrupt Beef's rehearsal, Winslow reasoned. He sat back and tried once more to watch Beef, but found it almost unbearable.

Almost. There was, to Winslow's chagrin, something close to a saving grace. Beef was a _good performer._ He knew what he was doing up there, and although he was struggling with the song - who wouldn't? - he was clearly working with it as well as he could. He knew how to use the guitar, he knew how to sing. He had, quite frankly, a good voice, and Winslow was frustrated hearing it put to use in something like this. It was deeper and rougher than what he expected to come out of Beef's mouth, when his speaking voice was softer and lighter and a bit higher, more effeminate than this by far. He was clearly a professional: Beef did not lack talent, but currently he clearly lacked an outlet that let him demonstrate his talent in any conceivable way.

As the rehearsal dragged on, it became clear that the music was not going to get any better. Winslow had thought "Upholstery" had butchered "Faust" (and it undeniably had, and he still got angry when he thought about that song), but even those lyrics had _some_ meaning, even that tune was catchy and memorable. The confused mess of sounds being created here could not even claim such compliments.

Finally, after an eternity that Winslow felt would have been spent better if he had sat in a dark room listening to forks scrape against plates, Swan raised a hand, and Beef's music cut to an abrupt stop.

"Thank you, Beef, I think that's quite enough for the day." Swan said, and Winslow let out a long, not-subtle breath of relief. "Why don't you give the Juicy Fr- Ah, the Undead a chance to practice _their_ music?"

Winslow was surprised by Beef's reaction to this suggestion. He furrowed his brow, looked at Swan for a moment, then glanced back to the Juicy Fruits, dropped his guitar on the ground so that it landed with a crash on the stage, and walked offstage without another word. He walked around to face the three of them - Winslow, Swan, and Philbin - and said, "They can have the stage all to themselves. I'll go look for my shirt in the dressing room." He shot a look at Philbin, and then turned promptly to Winslow. Although his eyes remained on him (Winslow shrunk back a little, uncomfortable with being stared at), it was Swan who Beef addressed when he asked, "Can I bring Winslow?"

Swan smiled and gave a little shrug. "I don't see why not."

Beef nodded and pointed to Winslow at that. "Well, come on," He made a beckoning motion then, towards the door that lead out of the main theatre and into the deeper parts of the Paradise, the hallways that lead to various offices, sound rooms, and, of course, the dressing room.

Winslow stood reluctantly, wondering what Beef wanted with him but not wanting to try to have a conversation in front of Swan and Philbin; he would have felt much too monitored, like everything he said was being recorded and judged, something to use against him later. So he followed Beef in silence, thankfully to at least be away from Swan as they exited the theatre. The walk up the flight of stairs to the dressing room made Winslow shiver; he had done this walk before. When he had finally recovered from his accident enough to function and form coherent thoughts, his first stop had been the storage room directly beside the dressing room, in search of something to cover his new horrific deformity.

Winslow could practically feel all of it again: The pain in his leg where he had been shot, causing each step to be agony. He could feel the dizziness and the nausea and the desperation. The nerves were singed off of his face but he still felt pain then, a terrible stinging and burning around the outer parts of the scar, where the burn had not been as severe and not ruined the nerves entirely. And there was the horrible fear he had felt: fear of being caught, fear of what was going to happen to him now, the fear that he would never speak another word. He could feel it all over again.

"Leach? You okay?"

Beef's voice pulled Winslow free of his thoughts and he turned to find the other man standing in the doorway of the dressing room, holding the door open for him. Winslow's face warmed beneath his mask and he shook his head, taking a deep, unsteady breath as he replied, "I'm fine, I'm okay." He walked into the dressing room, and Beef shut the door. Now feeling confident that they were secluded enough that they could talk freely, without fear of Swan's supervision, Winslow asked, "Why did you want me to come with you?"

Beef chuckled a little. "No need to sound so accusatory, man." He ran a hand through his glittery locks of hair. Winslow was pretty sure that those curls were fake, the result of hours of care and products and curlers, but he admired them nonetheless. "Did you really write that cantata?"

"'Faust'?"

Nodding, Beef reached out to grab Winslow's hand. Not liking his space being invaded so suddenly, Winslow immediately stepped back and pulled away, but Beef did not seem upset by the gesture. He said now, "Yes! Yes, 'Faust,' you wrote that? That's fabulous! The whole thing is fabulous. I wanted so badly to meet the writer, you know, when I auditioned. I was devastated to know he was dead- But, but he wasn't I guess, all along! I've never read music like that before, Leach."

"You can just call me Winslow," Winslow replied awkwardly, feeling heat rise on his cheeks again. But that was not the only thing rising; he could not remember being this excited about his music in a long time, and the passion he had felt so long ago was rising within him once more. Someone was excited about his music! Someone was excited about his music and _knew it was his music._ It was an incomprehensible feeling, he could not remember the last time he had felt real, genuine enthusiasm and pride about his work. But… Winslow's heart suddenly plummeted, his excitement leaving as quickly as it had come as he said, "Didn't you change my music? How can you love something you won't even respect?"

"What? I only changed it as much as Swan said to." Beef replied, and he looked nervous, like he could hear the hurt and anger in Winslow's robotic voice and wanted to prove he was better than these accusations. "It- It wasn't a range I could sing in, Swan said to drop a few octaves and change up the beat… I changed some of the lyrics too, to fit my vision once that much had changed, but… but it wasn't _disrespect_."

Winslow rolled his eye, angry still, and hurt, the realization of how butchered and bastardized his music was beginning to sink in. How could he be proud of something that had been so cruelly taken from him? "It wasn't scored for you because it wasn't meant for you to begin with." he explained bitterly. But then he felt his heart ache at the memory of Phoenix, and he closed his eye, sighed, and shook his head. "Never mind." he breathed, and when he looked back up he saw Beef was staring at him with evident worry on his face. Winslow's hurt melted away a bit. Beef was frustrating to talk to, but he did not seem like he meant harm. He certainly did not seem malicious like Swan. "Never mind," Winslow said again. "I'm… I'm really glad you liked the cantata. I put a lot of work into it."

Beef smiled again, a little hesitantly this time, and nodded. "I really did! You're a really _marvelous_ writer." He chuckled then and awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck. "Too bad Swan doesn't want us to perform your stuff anymore. He's worried it'll get old, if we tour with 'Faust' songs, y'see. This new writer, he's, uh… Well, if your stuff shines like a diamond, his sort of… twinkles a little, like ah… a cheap sequin."

Winslow attempted to decipher this phrase, and, hoping he understood the gist of it, went on to ask, "Who is he? Does Swan, um… know? How bad it is?" Swan, awful or not, was at the very top of this industry, the very best there was. Surely he had some idea of Beef's absolute inability to turn this new music into a coherent, passable performance.

Shrugging, Beef turned to look around the dressing room finally (it was a mess; boxes of fabric and glittery clothes and colorful, empty makeup containers lay everywhere, all over the floor, and the wall was an awkward mix of photos of Beef and photos of the Juicy Fruits - never photos of them together, and never hung particularly close to each other). "Dunno a thing about him, Swan just hired him. Today was my first time trying to play his music," Beef said as he rummaged through a box, his back turned to Winslow.

"Your first time?!" Winslow's eyes went wide at that. Why would Swan invite him _now_ , to come view Beef's very first rehearsal with this new music? It was bizarre and it made Winslow uneasy. In a normal situation he would have assumed the best; he would have thought something along the lines of "Swan just wanted me to tell him what he thinks." But he had already learned not to trust Swan, and he certainly did not think Swan cared about his opinions. "You've never played that music before?"

"Never even seen it, Philbin just gave me the sheets this morning." Beef turned back to face Winslow as if he detected the confusion in his voice and wanted to see if his expression matched. Just as he did that, the door swung open, making Winslow instinctively tense in surprise. He turned to see Philbin standing in the doorway, looking between the two of them.

"Find your shirt yet?" Philbin asked.

Beef smiled and walked past Winslow to Philbin, and as he brushed past his shoulder he mumbled the words, "Speak of the devil!" Winslow almost smiled. Addressing Philbin now, Beef said, "Hey there, Philbear."

"Don't call me that."

"The Juicy Dicks finally done?"

"Don't call them that! You find your shirt yet or not?"

"I told you what happened, Philbin, my-"

"Listen to me, Beef." Philbin snapped, pointing a finger angrily in Beef's direction. "Swan is pissed; that was handmade and the company is sponsoring the tour, lose that shirt and we lose cash. Understand? We ain't leaving 'till you find it." He turned then to Winslow and pointed at him now, then jabbed a thumb at the door. "Leach, Swan is waiting for you outside in the limo. Better get going."

Winslow looked at Beef, considering saying some sort of goodbye. But with Philbin in the room now he felt much less safe; once more he felt like all of his actions were being carefully surveyed and recorded, and he did not feel comfortable even saying a word. Beef glanced to him and for a moment their eyes met, to which Beef smiled a little. Winslow almost smiled back, but decided against it, and without another word he looked away and walked out of the dressing room with his eyes on the ground. The door shut behind him, and although he could hear Philbin say something to Beef, and Beef yell something back in an indignant tone, with the door shut he could only hear their muffled voices, and even that slowly faded from earshot as he walked down the stairs.

xxx

Winslow all but ran from the front of the Paradise to the limousine, not wanting to be out in public, on the street for all to see for more than a few seconds at the absolute most. He opened the door and quickly crawled in (he had to duck a considerable amount to get into the car). Swan, as Philbin had promised, was sitting and waiting inside already, and he smiled as he saw Winslow enter and shut the door behind him.

"Ah, Winslow, there you are! What did you think?"

"Why did you take me to see Beef perform that music for the first time?" Winslow looked at Swan, eyeing him for a moment, trying desperately to understand what he was up to for he already had a feeling that the answer he got would not be an honest one.

Swan smiled at that. "I already asked you: What did you think?"

"It was awful." Winslow replied gruffly.

Swan chuckled at that. "I'm well aware, Winslow. What you heard Beef pathetically attempt was the musical genius of Arnold Philbin. I had him throw together that garbage just an hour before he went over there with Beef to start the rehearsal. Beef has no idea, of course." Winslow's mouth opened at that, confused and shocked, not just by Swan's honesty but by the absolute outlandishness of this. "You remember what I said earlier, about a satisfied audience, Winslow?"

"A satisfied audience is a starving audience," Winslow gave a little nod, and stared out the window as the limousine driver pulled away from the Paradise.

"Good, good! The audience _adored_ 'Faust,' Winslow. The time for your music truly is now! The people love what you create. But that doesn't mean they'll be satisfied with a single record. They want more. We had him performing other songs of yours for a short while, but there weren't many completed pieces, and they could only keep the audience at bay for so long. Already, they're craving more. Winslow Leach is what the audience want!"

Winslow turned to stare at Swan at that, eye wide. "Other songs? What other songs? All I wrote for you - All you ever stole from me - was 'Faust.'" He grew uneasy, trusting Swan less and less by the second.

Swan responded with nothing but a smile. Then he reached out to pat Winslow on the leg, making him twitch with discomfort. "My men went into your apartment in search of things that I needed more than just once, Winslow."

A terrible silence came over the limousine, Winslow terribly shaken up by these words and Swan seemingly refusing to elaborate any further. Winslow wanted nothing more than to get back to the Swanage, to the bedroom he had spent so much time in - the closest thing to a familiar, comforting location he could possibly imagine anymore - and go to sleep for a long, long time. Finally, as they stopped at a red light, Swan broke the silence with, "When we get back to the Swanage we can discuss what I want from you over lunch, does that sound good?"

Lunch. Winslow suddenly felt nauseous and his heart began to race. He had forgotten, in the confusion and excitement, the startling realization he had had in the bathroom. He turned to stare directly at Swan, accusingly and threateningly, as he snapped, "What did you do to me?"

Swan laughed aloud. "How often do you ask me that idiotic question, Winslow? I haven't-"

"You were wrong, Swan, I did go days without eating, I know it. I don't need to eat anymore, I don't need to use the restroom. I read your newspaper article about me, the doctors said they have no idea how I survived." Winslow had assumed that that was an exaggeration, a dramatic retelling of the truth. But he was beginning to have his doubts. As he said the words a terrible feeling of dread came over him, and he feared what Swan might say. "What's happened to me?"

"I'm impressed you've managed to catch on so soon." Swan replied simply. The light turned green and the limousine began to move again. "I wasn't going to tell you because I wanted you to catch on yourself, you see, or else I knew you would never believe me. Your body, Winslow, no longer belongs to you." Winslow furrowed his brow, and Swan continued speaking in a tone Winslow thought was much too casual for the conversation at hand. "You gave up your own body, your own _life_ , when you signed that contract. So long as I'm alive, so are you. Your entire self - your body, your life, your existence - is tied to _me_ now."

"I don't believe you." Winslow said stubbornly, but he could feel his heart pounding in his chest as panic spread throughout his body. The reality that Swan's words could be legitimate sunk in, and it felt hard to breathe, and Winslow felt horribly dizzy. "Th- That doesn't make sense, it's not possible."

Swan was still smiling. "You're the one who wrote a three hundred page cantata about Faust, Winslow, are you honestly going to deny the power of a binding contract?" He drummed his fingers against his own leg. Winslow sat in stunned silence, horrified by the possibility that Swan was being honest, for once in his life hoping that Swan's words were all some sick lie. "I suppose I should thank you for figuring it out so soon - I was getting sick of spending extra money on food you didn't even need." Upon seeing how horrified Winslow was by his words, Swan reached out to place a hand on Winslow's shoulder. Winslow was too dazed to even try to get away. "Don't look so down, Winslow. I've given you the gift of eternal life! And as long as you can cooperate, I promise you'll come to be grateful for it."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N** I'm sorry for the long wait with this! I ended up getting an injury and having to wear a brace on my arm for two weeks that really kept me from writing at all - the very short amount of time I did have on the computer had to be spent doing homework x.x But here! The next chapter - Idk how many ppl are reading from here, but those who are reading, I hope you enjoy!

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Winslow desperately wanted to go to bed after arriving back at the Swanage. He wanted to swallow as many pills as he safely could (which, he realized now, was probably as many as he wanted...), bundle up, and sleep for an eternity. And he hoped deep down that when he woke up he would find that all of the information he had just been given, his entire conversation with Swan, was all some horribly nightmare. He was beyond the point of hoping to wake up and have his face be restored, or waking up and having never been to prison, or even waking up and no longer being in the Swanage. He did not have it in him to hope for such extravagant things anymore. If only this past conversation, this horribly revelation could be undone…

But Swan refused to hear it. Rather than let him go to bed Swan dragged Winslow down the hall to the kitchen once more, where he promptly ordered Winslow to sit down at the table. Winslow defeatedly did as told, for he did not have the will to argue with or undermine Swan's orders anymore. Swan walked to the cupboard.

"Any tea preferences, Winslow?" Swan asked casually as he rummaged through the cupboard. Winslow did not say a word; he was presently staring at his own hands, trying to convince himself they were indeed his own hands, that they belonged to him, that he had complete ownership of them. Swan hummed. "Chamomile it is, then."

Swan got to work preparing the tea, but Winslow was not paying attention. He continued to stare at his hands. He felt broken and weak and hopeless. There was no freedom from this. Escaping would mean a life of immortal misery, unable to show his face in public, living a life of shame with the name of a convicted, dead criminal. And living here was no better - in some ways it was worse - but at least there was a bed, and people who were willing to interact with him at all. And death itself, the ultimate escape, was impossible. Winslow could not even bring himself to be suicidal.

Winslow was not drawn from his thoughts until Swan placed a mug beside him, causing him to flinch, startled, and turn to look at it curiously. "I hope you don't mind milk and honey." Swan said calmly as he sat down across from Winslow. He hummed softly, watching Winslow for a moment, before saying, "Now, Winslow, let's get down to business."

"What?" Winslow looked up, glaring at Swan, hating him with a rage that was subdued only by his own feeling of intense, debilitating defeat.

Swan sighed and took a sip of tea. "You heard what Beef is capable of. You also heard the frankly tragic reality I'm facing: We're out of new music for him to play, and the tour starts in just a month." He set the mug down and looked at Winslow with seriousness; there were no games now, there was no playfulness or mockery in his tone. His eyes never left Winslow's as he said, "There's a prison cell in Sing Sing with your name on it, Winslow. If you don't want to spend the rest of your miserable existence behind bars, I suggest you make me an offer I can't refuse." Now he allowed a small smile to twitch onto his lips, and his cold tone softened into an cool, taunting one as he added, "I would hate to spoil the good name of Death Records by being caught harboring a criminal in my home! So _give me a reason not to send you back._ "

Winslow froze, his eye going wide. He stared at Swan in disbelief; even after all this time, he could not quite believe the absolute cruelty Swan possessed. Winslow attempted to respond to this but found that the horror of the reality he faced had left him in a state of mind where he could not properly formulate words, let alone fully comprehend _Swan's_ horrible words. As the reality of the threat began to slowly dawn on him, he felt himself grow pale and a sudden wave of nausea came over him. A life sentence in prison for him was a true eternity. An eternity locked away for a crime he never committed.

Swan, still waiting for an answer, took another sip of tea. Then he pointed to Winslow's untouched mug. "Why don't you try the tea, Winslow? Chamomile is supposed to calm the nerves, you know; it might help you!"

Winslow was still panicking, but at least this request made sense, and did not have an apparent threat or consequence to it. He shakily reached for the mug and brought it to his lips and took a very small drink. Winslow had never been one for tea, and he found the drink tasted a little too sweet for his liking, and left an odd aftertaste on his tongue. Swan watched from the other end of the table still, silently waiting. After a moment Winslow set the cup down on the table and nodded slowly.

"I can write music for Beef." Winslow said softly.

At that, Swan's smile instantly widened and he gave a nod. "A compelling offer indeed! I think I might just accept it." He stood up and walked to the sink, where he dumped out the rest of his tea and placed the cup down. Turning to face Winslow and leaning against the counter, he said, "Now, you won't be going by Winslow Leach anymore, of course. To the world you're my brother, and Winslow is a dead man. I'll have to put together an identity for you - I quite enjoy the name Spectre, do you think that would suit you?"

Winslow did not reply. He could feel his heart racing as he continued to think over what it was he had just agreed to. He was a composer; of course he could write music. This was an easy task for him, all things considered, and Beef was a talented enough performer that Winslow felt confident that he could pull off whatever he wrote for him. But now Winslow had a consequence if he failed to please - A fate worse than death. He drew in a deep breath and closed his eye, trying to come up with song ideas and feeling his fear and worry rise only higher and become even more intense when his mind drew a blank.

"Or maybe Dorian," Swan continued on, seemingly unconcerned by Winslow's silence. "I considered going by Dorian for a short while, when my career first took flight… Ah, Philbin, you've arrived!"

Swan's sudden greeting made Winslow look up in surprise. Sure enough, Philbin had just walked through the doorway. He looked tired, and he gave Winslow only the briefest of indifferent glances before wearily walking to Swan and saying, "His shirt was in Harold's shit… Don't ask me how the fuck it got there. Beef is claiming the Undead are trying to sabotage the tour, but if you ask me, I'd be willing to bet Harold just put it there by mistake. The man's a damn psycho when it comes to cleanliness. Next to godliness my ass; it makes my life a living Hell!"

Swan smiled and nodded slightly, and Winslow thought it looked like he was only vaguely paying attention. His arms were folded and his eyes were on his own shoes; he seemed lost in thought. Then, suddenly, he lifted his head and said, "And where is Beef now?"

"Oh, he's gone upstairs to shower. Between you and me, I think he might go back to bed afterwards. D'you have any idea how whiny he is about early rehearsals?"

"Never mind that now, Philbin, let him sleep if he wants. He worked hard today and has a busy night tonight, and besides, there are more urgent matters at hand." Swan looked at Winslow. "Our composer friend here has _generously_ offered to write Beef's music for the tour! Isn't that exciting?"

Philbin's eyes went wide and he pointed to Winslow, who was so surprised by the sudden movement in his direction that he tensed for a moment and closed his eye. "You, Leach!" Philbin said. Winslow slowly looked at him once more. "Uh, Beef told me to tell you that he liked your makeup."

Winslow blinked,silently thinking over that. "Oh."

"He was real adamant about me saying something." Philbin explained, rolling his eyes and then immediately changing the subject as he turned to Swan and said, "So what else did you want me to do today, boss?"

Winslow was lost in thought as Swan replied to Philbin's question, too distracted to care about a conversation that had nothing to do with him. Beef liked his makeup? He thought back to the few times he had seen Beef, and he supposed it made sense he would point it out; after all, Beef himself wore makeup, although of a much different nature. His was lighter, made not to hide features but accentuate them, eyeshadow made to make his dark brown eyes shine brighter and lipstick that made his lips just a little redder and fuller. But still, the compliment remained on Winslow's mind and he continued to dwell on it, to think it over and process the kind words. He could not remember the last time he had heard a genuine compliment…

"Winslow!"

Winslow jumped and turned. Swan and Philbin were both looking at him. Once Swan saw that Winslow's attention was on him he smiled and said, "Winslow, I have some work to attend to. Philbin is going to show you around the Swanage, alright?" Philbin turned to Swan with wide eyes, but did not say a word. Swan chuckled a little. "Once you're back in your room, I expect you to get to work on that music right away! A month may be more than a week, but it's certainly not enough time to dawdle. Get up, get up!"

Winslow reluctantly stood up. He glanced to Philbin, and their eyes met in a moment of painfully awkward silence. Then Philbin reached up to rub the back of his neck, looking uncertain and uncomfortable, and gave a nod to the door. "Well, come on, then, Leach…" he said slowly. "Let's make this quick."

Winslow should have been insulted, but in that moment he was simply grateful that Philbin seemed just as unhappy with these orders as he was. They both walked to the door of the kitchen, and Winslow waited behind for Philbin to go through first so that they would not be too close to each other. Even as they began to walk down the hall Winslow kept a good distance from him. Truthfully, Winslow did not like or trust Philbin. He was a sneaky, cruel little man who did not seem to have any qualms with hurting and manipulating other people, almost to the same extent as Swan. In fact, the only thing that made him different from Swan, Winslow thought, was that rather than being a power-hungry egomaniac who craved leadership and authority and fame, Philbin seemed to worship the ground Swan walked on, and be nothing but a follower at heart.

"So you're… you're gonna be writing music, huh?" Philbin asked as he and Winslow walked down the hallway. Winslow glanced to him with his one good eye, but said nothing. Philbin snorted. "Your last music was a real hit, you know."

"I know."

Philbin went quiet again, immediately aware that small talk was not something Winslow was going to humor him with. They walked in silence into the main entrance room of the Swanage. Philbin pointed to the other direction, opposite to the way they had come. There was another hallway down there. "Uh, there's another guest room and the dining room over there." Philbin explained. "We don't really use that room, uh, Swan-"

"Doesn't eat." Winslow interrupted stiffly. And neither did he anymore, apparently.

"Er, sure, yeah." Philbin gave a shrug and began to walk upstairs. Winslow followed behind him still, and his eye darted curiously around the interior of the Swanage. He had been up here twice before - Once, he had been trying to shove his way through a long line of singing girls, disoriented and confused as it slowly dawned on him that it was his own cherished music that was ringing in his ears. The memory of Phoenix made his heart sink and he thought back to the other time: Again, he had been sneaking in among a crowd of girls, but that time he had been in a long red dress himself.

Both memories were unpleasant now, as they only served to remind him that ten minutes later he was being horribly beaten and shoved into the bushes, only to be framed for selling drugs and sent to a life behind bars. Winslow shivered and walked faster, quickly hurrying up the stairs. At the end of the stairs was a hallway and at the end of the hallway were two closed doors. Winslow remembered those doors… Phoenix had entered them, and then very, very quickly left. Philbin had been there… Winslow's stomach twisted and his skin crawled in disgust.

"I don't want a tour anymore," Winslow said, going still. Truth be told he had not wanted a tour to begin with, but as the memories of just how disgusting Philbin was returned to him he grew even more determined to get away from him. "I want to go back to my room and sleep."

Philbin groaned and turned to face Winslow. "Well, that's too bad. Boss wants me to show you around, at least let me finish showing you the top floor. That's where the important shit is you know- We don't do much downstairs except host parties. Up here is where the action happens." He snickered and shoved a thumb in the direction of the two doors at the end of the hallway. "Especially in there"

"I remember." Winslow said weakly, once more thinking back to the very foreign feeling of the long red dress that seemed to barely cover his body, being tugged forward roughly by Swan's men, trying to keep his face hidden so as not to expose himself, biting his lip to stay quiet. He remembered being shoved into the little room surrounded by mirrors with the big round bed in the middle, and all of the auditioning girls on it, all wearing their own silky red gowns and touching and giggling and fawning over Swan. Again his skin crawled and he looked down. That had been so long ago now, Winslow thought. Over half a year. And yet still he could remember the night so vividly and perfectly, like it had happened only yesterday. He could remember every sense, even the distinct smell of cigarettes and flowery perfume that had permeated the air. "That's the… the big round bed where Swan takes the girls."

"We call it the Sex Bed, Leach."

"I would've called it the Swannery,"

"Well, now that you work for Death Records, maybe you can become the Official Sex Bed Name Changer, huh?" Philbin spoke gruffly, sounded genuinely angry and frustrated and annoyed with Winslow, which honestly cheered Winslow up just a bit (a sensation that was rare indeed). He turned away from the hallway that led to the Sex Bed (or, perhaps someday, the Swannery), and began to walk to the left, where yet another hallway lay. "Down here is a few more rooms and another bathroom. Beef's room is the one on the right, Swan's is the one way at the end." Philbin now let out a great sigh of what seemed to be relief and raised his hands as he gave another shrug. "That's it, I think! The Swanage ain't that interesting of a place once you've lived here for awhile, kid. The only people that give much of a shit are the reporters trying to get into Swan's mind and the girls trying to get into Swan's pants. For Death Record employees, it's just a lot of walking."

Winslow shifted uncomfortably, not liking the way Philbin had referred to him as an employee twice now. He was hardly an employee - He certainly was not being paid with anything but a bed to sleep on and freedom from prison. He turned away and suddenly his eye went wide. "What's down there?" he asked. He pointed in front of him: There was another hallway to the right with a door at the very end that Philbin had not said a word about.

Philbin turned to see what Winslow was looking at, and his brow furrowed. "Oh, uh, nothing, really. It just leads to a study… Kind of like an office, I guess. Swan keeps his paperwork in there. Not the _really_ important shit, though, so don't think snooping around will do you much good… All of that stuff is locked up in the Paradise. He just has, like… calendars and legal documents and singers' contact information in there."

Winslow's eye widened as those last few words left Philbin's mouth. Contact information? He felt his stomach tighten with anticipation. Phoenix had, at least for a short while, worked for Death Records. She had been a singer. Did Swan have her contact information still? He knew it was better not to ask. Philbin would surely report the question to Swan, and then even if Swan did still have the information he would undoubtedly destroy or hide it from Winslow.

But if he could just get into that room… Winslow's heartbeat had picked up and he stared down the hallway that led to the study. He had to get in there, somehow. He had to find a way in and he had to see if Phoenix could be contacted, and if she could he had to call her or write to her or… _something_. Winslow was not sure what he would do, but he knew now that he had a new goal. He had to get into that room and see if Phoenix's information was there. He turned to Philbin and said briskly, "Thanks for the tour, I'm going back to my room now."

Winslow could see that Philbin was watching him as he walked back to the steps and down the staircase to his room, but he said nothing. He walked hurriedly to the door of his room and ducked inside, and quickly slammed the door shut. He closed his eye for a moment and leaned back against the door, sighing in relief as he rested there for a moment - His heart was still pounding and the image of the long hallway with the study at the end of it flashed in his mind. He just had to get to it without Swan, Philbin, or anyone else noticing.

When Winslow opened his eye again he gasped. In the corner of the room was something that had not been there before: A little desk with a chair. This must have been moved in while he was getting the tour from Philbin, he thought. He walked over curiously, and although Phoenix and the room upstairs still weighed heavily on his mind he could see a notepad on the desk and he was curious to know what it said. Reaching the desk, he recognized Swan's handwriting on the note, and he picked it up to read it.

 _Spectre!_

 _I've had some things brought to your room. In the drawer beneath the desk are music sheets and pencils, and I can provide you access to a piano as soon as tomorrow morning. As I said before, get to work immediately, we haven't time for delay. I can't wait to hear what you come up with! You've already signed a contract with me, so I figured it was pointless to give you a new one._

 _Your brother,_

 _Swan._

Winslow felt sick as he read the note over. Swan had been serious about all of this, then. He could feel his hand trembling a little; the whole situation made him nervous and uncomfortable and terribly worried. Nothing that came from working with Swan was good. He had learned that the hard way. Allying with Swan meant setting yourself up for doom and disaster. But what choice did he have? If it was between working for Swan and returning to prison, there was little decision to be made.

And besides, Winslow reasoned, as he sat down at the desk and pulled open the little drawer beneath it to inspect the contents, as least this time the project was not something he was so passionate about, so devoted to. He was passionate about all music and all of his work to some extent, of course, but not to the same intensity as he had ever been with "Faust." "Faust," which had been his life's work, his magnum opus. He had spent so many long days and nights locked away working tirelessly on song after song, and all he had wanted was to share it. And Swan had destroyed all of that hard work and all of that passion just like he had destroyed so much else.

Winslow reached up to touch what was visible of his scar. He thought back to Phoenix again.

He looked up to the ceiling. For all he knew, Phoenix's contact information was right above his head. If he could just apologize, just tell her what had happened and explain himself and make sure she knew that he had never planned to let this happen, that he was not the insane criminal the media had made him out to be…

Filled with determination, Winslow stood once more and walked back to the door. He opened it slowly and glanced out. No one was around. Was Swan in his room? Still in the kitchen? He knew he did not want to run into him while on this mission. He did not know how Swan would feel about him contacting Phoenix, but he likely would not want it. Carefully, Winslow crept down the hallway, back to the staircase. Still he saw no one. It was bizarrely still and silent throughout the whole Swanage. Beef was probably napping, as Philbin had predicted, but that did not explain the absence of everyone and everything else.

But Winslow took this as a sign; if fate had decided he would get this job over with without a single obstacle, he was not going to complain. Quickly Winslow snuck to the main hall and up the staircase. He practically held his breath as he reached the top, still expecting to run into someone, formulating an excuse in his head as he looked around. _I was just looking for a bathroom. I was trying to find Swan. I ran out of pain meds and needed more_.

Still there was no one. Winslow drew in a soft breath, careful not to make a sound and have his voice box pick it up and translate it into the loud electronic growl that would surely catch attention. He ran swiftly down the hallway to the right and as he reached the end, he prayed to every god he could come up with off the top of his head that the door would be unlocked, the room would be empty, and Phoenix's information would be there.

Then Winslow grabbed the doorknob and turned it.

Just as any door should, it promptly opened.

Winslow felt his heart all but stop, anxiety making his stomach twist and tighten itself into a great big knot. He drew in another weak breath as he stepped into the room. As Philbin had promised, it appeared to be a study. Books lined shelves in the corners of the room and there was a huge desk in the center. There was paperwork of all sorts scattered on the desk, as well as a phone in the upper corner. The desk had filing cabinets for legs, and Winslow had a feeling that if Phoenix's information was in here, it would be within one of those.

He shut the door carefully and walked to the filing cabinets, beginning to rummage through them. The first one he opened was full of what appeared to be contracts. None like the one he had signed (Winslow shivered thinking back to it, knowing what he had done, what the contract had meant), but simply legal contracts of different sorts. Phoenix may have had one, he was not sure, but he did not particularly care to find out. Thinking about contracts at all made him feel a bit nauseous and there was little he could do with this information anyway.

The next two drawers had complicated paperwork that Winslow could not make out. Documents about lawsuits, complicated legal documents, long and detailed descriptions of partnerships that had been made with other companies. Swan was the CEO of an internationally famous, agonizingly successful company, Winslow knew that, but he was still surprised to find him as organized as he was when it got down to the legal matters. Still, this information told Winslow little except that Swan was a decent businessman, which was information that did not benefit him in the slightest.

Still not losing hope, Winslow went to the second set of filing cabinets on the other side of the desk and opened it. His eye lit up at what he saw. The top drawer was arranged alphabetically. For names, perhaps? Was this what he had been looking for? To test it he skimmed through the B files, looking for Beef. He saw many names, but when Beef's name did not appear he began to wonder if perhaps he had the wrong cabinet yet again. Then he noticed that just behind where he was searching, on the paper at the front of the C files, the words _CAPTAIN BEEF_ were printed. Winslow snatched it and skimmed it over. There was Beef's mailing address, his number, his mother's number and address (emergency contact information), as well as a number of other bits of personal information (Beef was twenty-four years old, apparently).

Winslow was shaking with excitement and anticipation and suspense and his heart felt like it was ramming into the front of his chest with each heartbeat. His fingers trembled as he shoved Beef's information back where it belonged and began to eagerly rummage through the P section. Anxiety mixed with ecstatic excitement and hope made it hard for him to think or function, but he remained determined as he searched.

There she was.

In big letters right at the top, the most beautiful seven letters Winslow thought he had ever seen in his life. Relief and joy washed over him as his trembling fingers reverently pulled the paper from the drawer and lifted it to read. Printed clear as day was the word _PHOENIX_.

Winslow took only a moment to skim over the information and check to make sure it was there. Then he looked to the phone on the desk. He ran to it and grabbed it, clutching the phone like it was the most important object he had ever been in the presence of, like his very survival and existence relied on that phone being in his possession. He hastily, eagerly dialed the number, and then pulled the phone to his ear and waited, fingers tapping on the desk, body still trembling and heart still hammering.

It felt like he spent an eternity there, just waiting. The phone humming softly as it dialed. What if she didn't answer? Oh God, what was he going to _say_? His hand rested on his voice box and he swallowed; she would think he sounded so awful. And yet… he had to try. He had to talk to her if he could, just once…

"H- Hello?"

The voice that came through the speaker suddenly made ecstasy (with a hint of nervousness) burst within Winslow. Phoenix… Even muffled by the phone, he could recognize the soft, gentle, silky alto of Phoenix's voice and he let out a soft sigh of joy and relief.

"Phoenix! Phoenix, it's m-"

"Winslow!"

Winslow cried out in shock and dropped the phone as Swan's voice, sharp and angry, suddenly echoed through the room. Winslow turned to see Swan standing in the doorway. Panic replaced relief and terror replaced joy and he scrambled to slam the phone down and shut it off, hanging up on Phoenix without a word. He stared at Swan for a moment, and then Swan took a step forward.

"Winslow, I'm so _very_ disappointed in you; I-"

Swan did not get to finish his sentence. Winslow scrambled desperately, instinctively, and grabbed hold of the first thing to catch his eye - the metallic gleam of a pair of scissors. He grabbed them off the desk and threw them with thoughtless, reckless desperation directly at Swan's heart. With a dull thump of a sound, something similar to a knife being shoved into a mattress, the scissors hit Swan's chest and sank in. But they did not go deep, and they did not spill even a drop of blood, and Swan seemed unfazed save for grimacing and taking a step back. Winslow stared, shocked, his eye wide and his mouth hanging open, the realization of what he had just attempted to do dawning on him. It had happened so fast, he had not even had time to think… No judgement had been involved, simply a desperate, panicky attempt to avoid the consequences of his actions.

Swan huffed and grabbed the scissors, looking down at them for a moment before tugging them out of his own chest and tossing them to the ground. As they landed with a clatter on the floor Swan looked back up. "Winslow, don't be ungrateful," he spat. Winslow took a step back, feeling sick and horrified, knowing there was no way to talk himself out of whatever punishment Swan had in store. "I've given you so much, and how do you repay me? Scissors to the heart? Pathetic." Swan huffed and walked forward. Winslow backed up again. "Stop trying to get away, Winslow, come here."

Swan was immortal too. It seemed obvious now; he had said it himself: Winslow was alive as long as Swan was, and Winslow would live forever. Surely that implied Swan, too, had managed to achieve eternal life. Winslow felt like a fool for ever thinking he could stop Swan so easily. As Winslow walked to Swan he felt his stomach tighten and horrible dread wash over his entire being, and although Swan was so small compared to him, he was the most powerful, imposing, horrifying being he had ever laid eyes on in that moment.

"I've done so much for you, and this is the second time now that you've undermined my trust." Swan drummed his fingers on his desk. "I imagine you're feeling very ashamed right now, is that right? You certainly should be. No ordinary human would be so ungracious. But…" He looked up now, his eyes landing on Winslow's masked face, and Winslow felt like his gaze could pierce right through his metal and he could see directly inside of him, "you're hardly human at all anymore, are you?"

The question felt like a sharp tug at the knot that Winslow's stomach had coiled itself into. He drew in a weak breath and struggled to swallow even air, and he looked away, his head lowered.

"Look at me, Winslow."

Winslow very reluctantly looked, but he refused to let his eye meet Swan's.

Swan hummed, drumming his fingers still, incessantly, on the desk. Winslow was sure he would be driven mad by it, but he was also certain that total silence would not have been any better, and would have been equally maddening. Everything was wrong and uncomfortable, the air felt too thick to swallow and his mask felt heavy on his face and despite the nerves having been horribly burned and seared off he was certain he could feel a dull, throbbing sensation where his scar was.

"Do you have anything to say for yourself?

Winslow did not.

Swan let out a breathy chuckle through his nose and suddenly his tapping ceased. "I should hope you do, because you're one strike away from prison, and I'm being generous giving you even that." He stood up. "Why don't I give you some time to think on it? If you're so adamant on staying silent, I'll give you silence." His voice was gentle, but Winslow knew better than to trust Swan's benevolence. "Give me your voice box."

"What?!" Winslow's eye widened and he shook his head, stepping back instinctively.

"Ah, _now_ you can speak!" Swan laughed. "You heard me, Winslow, you may lack integrity but you certainly don't lack comprehension." He held a hand out. Winslow did not move for a moment, every inch of his body resisting the order, begging himself not to do as told. Without his voice he was reduced to a squawking, snarling monster. The memories of when he first came to his senses enough after the accident to even realize he had lost his voice - the terror and disbelief, the desperate, hysteric denial, the mantra of _this isn't real, this hasn't happened, this can be fixed, there's no way I can never speak again_ \- resurfaced. He blinked and touched his own throat, and Swan hummed again as if quietly telling Winslow not to keep him waiting. Slowly, hands feeling weak and numb, Winslow removed the device and very, very gently set it down on the desk.

Swan nodded and took the box. "Good, good." He was smiling, and he looked up now to watch Winslow from where he sat with smug delight. Winslow felt horribly exposed, horribly vulnerable and powerless against Swan. He touched his own chest; although it was covered by his shirt it felt completely bare without the box in front of it now. "I'll be holding onto this for awhile. Why don't you head back to your room? Your music won't write itself, you know."

The moment he was given permission to leave, Winslow darted for the door, desperate for isolation. Just as he reached it Swan called, "Oh, and Winslow? I've invited some guests over this evening. I suggest you lock your door; I doubt you want to put any unsuspecting people through the trouble of seeing you. And staying in all night will give you a great opportunity to get a head start on your music!"

Winslow's heart stopped at Swan's words. People were coming here? He drew in a nervous breath. Who was coming? Girls? Reporters? Other people in the music industry? He had no idea, but he had no way to ask, and he did not want to dwell on it. Without another word (not that he had much of a choice), Winslow turned and hurried out the door.

xxx

" _Hey, kids, shake it loose together,_

 _The spotlight's hitting something that's been knowing to change the weather._

 _We'll kill the fatted calf tonight_

 _So, stick around…"_

How Swan had expected him to work under these conditions was an absolute mystery to Winslow. "Some guests" had been an outrageous exaggeration. Not that he had dared step foot outside his bedroom, but from the sound of it alone - if the constant talking, blaring music, and frequent footsteps both outside his door and above him were any indication - it sounded less like the small gathering Swan had implied and more like a full blown party.

It was utterly intolerable. Winslow, terrified of being locked in, had refused to heed Swan's advice and lock his door, but luckily keeping it shut kept most people away. Most other people knocked, to which he would respond with knocking back even louder, for he could not yell out that the room was not for public use. The few who did open the door typically left quickly upon seeing that the atmosphere within the bedroom was much different than the chaotic party going on in the rest of the Swanage, and if they did not it did not take more than Winslow turning to look at them with his one good eye and growling to get them to quickly leave.

Those particular people probably had questions for Swan and Philbin. He would let them deal with that; it wasn't his problem.

" _You're gonna hear electric music,_

 _Solid walls of sound…"_

Interruptive disturbances was only one of Winslow's problems, however. The music itself, thundering through every hallway and blasting out every window and smashing its way through every wall, was ceaseless and unbearable. He had never been one for loud music, even music he enjoyed, and when he had work to do, it went from annoying to nearly entirely unendurable.

" _Say, Candy and Ronnie, have you see them yet?_

 _Oh, but they're so spaced out-"_

"Fuck _off_!"

The door suddenly flew open, only to slam shut again so quickly that Winslow, startled, jumped in surprise and nearly fell out of his chair. He clutched his chest, where his heart was beating hard from his sudden fright, and stood up and turned to face whoever had just entered. When he saw who it was his nerves relaxed a bit, no longer afraid, but he only grew more confused and bewildered.

Beef was standing with his back pressed to the shut door. He was all dressed up for the party - He wore a glittery silver tank top and tight black pants to match, his hair sparkled with silver glitter, and he wore a shiny, metallic collar around his neck. In his hands was a glass bottle of Coke. He was looking around the little bedroom wildly, clearly confused and disoriented by his new surroundings, and he was panting fast and heavily. Winslow wondered if he was high, drunk, or both.

Beef's eyes finally landed on Winslow and his eyebrows rose in surprise. "Winslow!" he turned and locked the door, and Winslow could not voice any complaint, before walking all the way to the other side of the room and to where Winslow stood in front of his desk. With his free hand he grabbed hold of Winslow's forearm just below his elbow. "Is this your room?" he asked, speaking loud enough that his voice was clear over the music.

Clearly Beef had not caught onto his inability to speak. Winslow tugged free of Beef's grip and, keeping his mouth shut, replied with nothing but a nod.

Beef was too distracted - or too intoxicated, maybe - to notice his silence. "Can I hide in here?" He walked to the bed and sat down at the foot of it before getting a response (not that Winslow would be able to give one, anyway). "Jesus Christ, I'm sick of those girls." he groaned, then reached over to set his Coke down on the edge of the bedside table, nearly knocking over a bottle of sleeping pills, before laying back on the bed and closing his eyes. "They're so damn clingy and demanding, like I fucking owe them for getting up on stage to sing a few times a week… Like, holy shit, fuck off, I'm gay!"

Winslow, unsure of what to say, walked back to the chair at his desk, turned it around so that it faced the bed, and sat down to stare at Beef.

Beef suddenly sat up, looking at Winslow with wide eyes. "Shit, shit, um- Um, don't repeat that." Winslow could not have repeated it even if he wanted to. Beef gave an awkward chuckle and fidgeted with his collar, and Winslow noticed that his face had become very red. Then he groaned and rubbed his forehead. "Dammit, I'm sorry, I, I-" Beef, who clearly was not totally capable of keeping track of his own train of thoughts, or perhaps had managed to make some connection in his head that Winslow - nor anyone else - could ever follow, suddenly punched the bed angrily and growled before snapping, "I can't believe I'm going on tour with those assholes."

Winslow blinked. The suddenness of the topic change was emotional whiplash; he was still just beginning to process Beef drunkenly coming out to him. Not that he had particularly assumed Beef was straight - it would take a fool, or maybe a very desperate and blindly optimistic young female fan, to think that - but the actual confirmation that he was indeed gay had left Winslow deep in thought.

" _We shall survive, let us take ourselves along,_

 _Where we fight our parents out in the streets_

 _To find who's right and who's wrong…"_

Beef huffed, "Six months, Swan said. Six months all over the planet, with the goddamn Juicy Fruits." Winslow did not know how to reply. As Beef rambled on he looked around, zoning out just a little, and his eye landed on the notepad Swan had used to communicate with him before. Getting an idea now he opened the desk and found a pen, and tore the top note from the pad. He quickly began to scribble a message on the new top of the notepad.

" _She's got electric boots, a mohair suit,_

 _You know I read it in a magazine-"_

" _-B-B-B-Beef and the Undead._ " Beef interrupted the song, singing over it bitterly and sarcastically. He huffed a little laugh to himself and then looked up at Winslow. "The only thing I'm really looking forward to about the whole thing now is hearing your new music for it. Swan mentioned earlier you offered to write some."

Winslow stood up now and walked to Beef, sitting down beside him, which made Beef's eyebrows raise in surprise. He held out the note to Beef, showing him what he had written:

" _I'm sorry I can't talk right now. Literally."_

Beef blinked, and then looked up at Winslow. He opened his mouth to speak and then stopped suddenly and gasped. "Oh, that… the box you always wear… What happened to it?"

Winslow very sloppily scribbled down a single word:

" _Swan."_

Beef frowned. "Oh." He clearly did not understand, and he looked a little uncomfortable, perhaps even guilty, now. Winslow hoped he would leave. As much as he tended to like hearing people compliment his music, he felt horribly exposed and uncomfortable right now, unable to say a word, Beef drunkenly complaining about his upcoming tour while he sat on his bed and hid from girls at a party. The whole situation was very _much_ for Winslow, who was beginning to consider kicking Beef out. The last thing Winslow expected was for Beef to reach out and grab the bottle of Coke off the table and hand it to Winslow. "D'you want this? Um, you can wipe the lipstick off the top, I only took a few sips, I swear."

Winslow, baffled, set down his notepad and accepted the bottle.

Beef snickered. "Philbin said no more coke, so I switched from the powder to the fizzy brown stuff."

Winslow looked at the rim of the bottle. There was silver lipstick on it, as Beef had warned. Unsure of what else to do he used the edge of the bedsheet to wipe off the worst of the lipstick (there was still a smudge of light grey which he chose to ignore) and then take a hesitant sip of the soda. Beef was watching; for some reason the realization made Winslow's cheeks feel warmer as he lowered the bottle again. Being stared at had always made him a bit flustered (even when performing, there had always been a hint of stage fright, and he did everything he could to remain totally fixated on his music so as not to think too hard on the audience he very rarely had), and now that he was the masked, scarred freak that he was, it was an even more stressful experience. He looked down at the bottle once more: The silver of Beef's lipstick was now hidden beneath a layer of Winslow's black lipstick.

"It's the least I can give you after you let me crash in on you like this... " Beef said, causing Winslow to look up again. He was still staring at Winslow Winslow quickly looked away when Beef's eyes met his own, and he ended up letting his eye rest on his own feet, which hung off the side of the bed. Both him and Beef were silent for a moment. Winslow had no idea what to say, and even if he did have some sort of idea, he knew he could not say it. He still felt exposed, weak and powerless and helpless.

Desperate for Beef to start talking again so that he would not have to dwell on his own muteness, Winslow took one more sip of the Coke and set it back on the bedside table before picking up his notebook again. He quickly scribbled out in his sloppy, scratchy handwriting that he personally felt had become even worse since becoming blind in one eye, " _You really hate the Juicy Fruits?_ "

He handed the note to Beef, who read it over for a second before letting out a loud laugh of amusement. "I'm not too good at hiding it, huh? Philbin keeps saying I better learn to shut up before the tour or all the tabloids will just be about my vendetta against 'em." He sighed and set the notepad down. "I don't… I didn't hate them at first, okay? We were buddies, we got along… I really liked them, and… well, I think they liked me too. I thought they did. Er, I dunno." He looked down at his hands now, and Winslow frowned, watching Beef curiously. He had not seen him like this before, so subdued and quiet.

Beef continued with a little, weak laugh. "It was… It was nothing. I… well…" Winslow watched now as his face grew red, and Beef grabbed the bed sheet, holding it tight. He was silent for a moment, and Winslow almost wanted to try to push him into continuing, intrigued and wanting to hear the rest of the story. Winslow himself had a personal dislike of the Juicy Fruits, partly stemming from pure pretentious haughtiness. The pop garbage that they sold out with every year just about drove him mad. And there had been jealousy there, too, admittedly. The fact that he had locked himself away for years pouring his soul into his cantata while they could sing about whatever fluff they pleased and it would play on every radio station for a solid month straight made him bitterly envious, to say the least. But Beef seemed to have a more personal issue with them, and Winslow was eager to hear what it was.

"It was Archie," said Beef now. And he looked up at Winslow. "D'you know which one Archie is? He, uh, he's the lead singer in 'Goodbye, Eddie'..." Winslow gave a little shrug; he could not be bothered to tell them apart "But I mean… it wasn't _just_ him, because those three defend each other to fucking hell and back. But Archie started it - The bastard led me on." He squeezed the bedsheet. Winslow heard how the anger that had started to build in his voice suddenly faded, replaced with embarrassment and hurt, emotions Winslow himself knew all too well. "We started to get closer, y'know? Us two, specifically, and I thought there might be something there, between us, I dunno. _Whatever it was_ , it was cut short. Turns out he likes both boys _and_ girls…"

Winslow's attention was suddenly tugged out of Beef's story and he furrowed his brow. He reached for the notepad in Beef's hands, tugging it free of his grip. Beef's eyebrow rose as Winslow began to hurriedly write out another message:

" _Me too."_

Beef blinked, his anger and hurt subsiding now as confusing took their place. "You too… what?"

Winslow's face was very red and he suddenly regretted this. Cursing his impulsivity and quickness to anger and constant need to prove himself, his hand trembled a little as he thought over how to word his next message. Not having the courage to write out what he wanted to tell Beef in words (in fact, he did not really want to tell Beef this at all anymore, and had been simply spurred by impulsive spite, and now was beginning to deeply regret his actions), he very quickly sketched the Venus and Mars gender symbols and circled them both. Then he all but tossed the notepad back to Beef and looked away, embarrassed.

Beef was silent for a moment. Then Winslow heard him mutter, "Oh, shit." Then he felt a hand reach out and tug the end of his shirt, and Winslow reluctantly turned back around to face Beef, grateful that his mask hid the worst of the flush on his cheeks. "That was stupid of me Winslow, I- I don't have a problem with bisexuality, I swear to God-" He brushed some of his own hair from his face and shook his head. "I should have been more clear, uh… Fuck." He had really caught him off guard, Winslow thought, almost feeling bad now. Beef was absolutely at a loss for words, and if Winslow's face was red from his awkward confession, Beef's was positively on fire. Winslow did not even realize that Beef was still holding onto the end of his shirt. "I- I should've been more clear, sorry, I… He already had a girlfriend, is what I meant. I don't even know if he actually likes men. It all seemed like a joke to him in the end, so who… who knows…" Beef was still blushing horribly, but the look of surprise and interest that he been on his face upon Winslow's coming out to him shifted to one of embarrassment and irritation.

Winslow realized that he was still taking in quick, nervous, shallow breaths of air, his heart still beating a little faster than usual after his confession. Beef's blushing wasn't helping, and the silence that had fallen between them was only filling Winslow with more and more dread. It was hard to think, and he made a desperate attempt to help Beef relax and cheer up - hoping it would make him more talkative again - by reaching for the Coke on the bedside table and offering it to him.

Beef did not bother to try to wipe Winslow's lipstick off as he took a drink of the soda. Winslow tried not to think about it.

"Um… thanks, uh…" Beef set the bottle in his lap, clutching it by the neck and staring at the door now. He let out a sigh. "I dunno. Maybe it's petty of me to be so mad at them. I mean, it's not like I'm not used to it." He rolled his eyes and huffed. Winslow noticed that he was gripping the bottle even tighter now. "I guess that's what feels so shitty about it, though. That I gotta deal with this shit so often… Can I tell you something, Winslow?"

Winslow gave a little shrug, still partly wishing Beef would leave and let him spend the night sulking alone but also finding himself curious to know what he had to say. Come to think of it, he hardly ever had conversations anymore, save for his dreadful talks with Swan and the occasional interaction with Philbin. His moments with Beef were some of the first times in months that he had spoken with someone who did not want to hurt him. He had typically stuck to short responses in prison, terse, one or two word answers, in order to avoid interaction as much as possible. Deep down the part of him that had still been in denial, that had been completely and utterly incapable of comprehending that he was sentenced to spend the rest of his life locked away, had believed that if he isolated himself enough, if he refused to associate with anyone or allow himself to belong, he would somehow never truly be like them and one day be allowed to walk free.

And his short life as a homeless person had not been much better; save for the rare, brave person who tried and failed to strike up a conversation at the soup kitchen, Winslow had spent the time in total solitude, not interacting with a single person and certainly not having any pleasant conversations.

"I worked my ass off to get to where I am and I still have to deal with the shittiest managers and colleagues who treat me like a joke!" Beef said, throwing a hand up in the air. The Coke almost fell over, but he rushed to grab it again before it could. "It gets so tiring; I gotta spend my whole damn life in the closet if I wanna make a name for myself and I _still_ end up dealing with this shit. Would you believe Philbin is one of the nicer managers I've had?" He paused and chuckled incredulously, shaking his head. "The Juicy Fruits are just the newest issue; it's just the latest in a series… I'm always a goddamn target. If it wasn't for my mother encouraging me I dunno if I'd have kept going in this shithole industry at all; sometimes it feels like it isn't worth it."

Winslow watched Beef in silence. He was almost relieved for his own inability to speak now, for he had no idea what he could possibly say. He reached out to nervously place his hand on Beef's shoulder, the bare palm of his hand touching the bare flesh of Beef's arm, and while there was not much to the gesture it was one of the more intimate touches he had experienced in awhile. He wet his lip and looked at the bottle, keeping his eye off of Beef.

But he saw from the corner of his good eye the way Beef glanced to Winslow's hand before speaking again. "She and I weren't too well off when I was little. But I always knew I wanted to become a famous rock star one day… And maybe it's stupid of me to have kept clinging to that dream after being insulted and mocked and attacked for existing so many damn times… But I just want it so badly, you know?" He snorted. "That's what I get for being young and poor and crazy.

"But… I think I finally might have a chance." Beef turned to look at Winslow with a smile. "The tour is coming up so soon, and people… people really like me. My concerts sell out and I hear my own music on the radio… I don't have to change anything and as much as he complains even Philbin doesn't try to force me to be anyone I'm not. Working with Swan has really saved me, I think…"

"No!" Winslow tried to say, but what came out instead was a distorted growl. He covered his mouth, humiliated by the horrible noise that had left him, and felt his stomach tighten with worry and fear and embarrassment. Beef trusted Swan… Beef did not know who Swan was, what it was he would do to people…

Beef jumped in surprise. "What?!" He stared at Winslow, looking nervous and confused. "Wh- What was that sound?"

Winslow's face burned red under his mask and he refused to let his hand leave his mouth. He shook his head, looking away, heart racing. When his eye landed on the notepad he reached for it eagerly and wrote out a fast message, so quick and desperate, letters sliding together and running into each other in sloppy half-cursive, that it was nearly illegible:

" _swan did this to me and he'll do it to you too"_

Beef had a look of concern on his face when he took the notepad back from Winslow. Winslow watched, his hand still over his mouth, as Beef read over it. His eyebrows furrowed and his face paled and after a moment he looked back up at Winslow with shock in his deep brown eyes. "What the hell does this mean?" he asked. His tone was sharp and accusatory and angry, and Winslow felt like ice was being plunged into his chest as the words left his mouth.

Winslow reached out with the hand not covering his mouth and grabbed the notepad from Beef's hand with trembling fingers. He started to hurriedly scribble out more words, " _he'll ruin you, he only cares about himself you can't trust h-"_

The pad was suddenly ripped from Winslow's hand. He gasped against his mouth and looked up to see Beef standing in front of the bed now, holding the notepad. "Stop it." he said. He didn't look angry anymore; Winslow couldn't tell what his expression was. Was he hurt? Upset?

 _Drunk_ , Winslow's mind supplied. He felt frustration rising within himself now and he, too, stood, stubbornly, and grabbed the notepad, yanking it free of Beef's grasp.

He promptly pointed to the door, expressionless.

Beef huffed. "Fine." he said. He placed the Coke on the bedside table, gave Winslow one last unreadable look, and walked to the door and unlocked it. He then walked out of the room, shutting the door behind him just hard enough that Winslow winced in surprise.

And then Winslow was alone. The music outside was still blaring - he had almost forgotten it with Beef in the room, it had been so easy to drown everything out when he was listening to him speak… - and people were still talking and footsteps still echoed around him. Nothing had changed; there was no evidence of Beef's presence save for the notes Winslow had written on the notepad in his hand and the half-drunk bottle of Coke on the bedside table. Winslow sat down on the bed and tore the notes off of the pad and crumpled them up, not wanting Swan to find them later. Then he glanced back to the desk. All that time he could have spent writing music had been wasted…

And the anger that had briefly flared up was beginning to leave him now, and be replaced with anxiety that he could not place the cause of. His conversation with Beef? The unfinished music that he had only barely begun to work on? The ceaseless noise coming from outside of his room? The fact that he was still in the Swanage at all, and at this point in time that was a _good thing_? Winslow was not sure if he even wanted to know exactly what the cause of his emotions was. There was too much to process in the conversation he had just had and the world around him; even thinking of Beef, who until now had been a source of… positivity, now left only bad feelings. Anger and frustration and embarrassment. Winslow sighed and lay down.

He should get back to work, Winslow thought. Swan was expecting music from him, and he did not have much time to get it done. He had to produce some passable music soon or he would be sent back to prison and locked up for eternity. He had a job to do that his entire life depended on.

Winslow used the Coke to down a handful of sleeping pills.

xxx

Winslow was woken very suddenly by a knock at the door. He sat up and looked around. "Swan?" he called out, only to promptly gasp as the sound that left his mouth was a distorted snarl. He fell silent and listened, waiting for the door to open. Instead, there was another knock, and then Winslow heard the sound of footsteps echo down the hallway. Still he sat quietly, listening. Swan was horrible, but he was not the kind to ding dong ditch, Winslow thought with confusion.

Although he was tired still and a bit disoriented, having only just woken up moments ago, curiosity got the better of him and he stood, walking to the door. Cautiously Winslow opened it, and he gasped aloud at what he saw.

His voice box sat on the ground in front of the door.

Winslow rushed to pick it up, grabbing it and holding it against his chest, clutching it as if he had just been reunited with a long lost, dear friend. Swan must have decided to return it to him. He carried it into the room, shutting the door behind him. It was not until he sat down on the bed to reattach it that his eye caught the little yellow sticky note on the side of the box:

" _Sorry."_


End file.
